


only by dark

by foxbones



Series: mad girl's love song [3]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternative Season/Series 02, F/F, Post-Season/Series 01, come for the descriptions of intense sex, guess i'm going to ride this train until i die, stay for the unbearable pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-06-14 20:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15397209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxbones/pseuds/foxbones
Summary: When she sees her next, she wants to push her against a wall with her forearm pressed to her throat. She wants to hear the gasp Eve makes when she finds her breath again.When she sees her next, she wants Eve to beg her for this. She wants to be wanted beyond sanity. She wants to know in all this time, while she was imprisoned in some godforsaken Alpine compound, detached from the rest of the world, Eve was waiting, wanting, miserable at the thought that she might have killed the one thing that could get her off anymore.Hardly romantic.A post-Season One fic, and an alternative to Season Two.





	1. i am reduced to a thing that wants

**Author's Note:**

> Mother is played by Isabelle Huppert in my head.
> 
> Title and chapter titles taken from the letters of Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West, the OGs of gay pining.
> 
> Dear Phoebe Waller-Bridge,  
> I am shooting my shot. Do y'all need a writer down the line for future seasons? I am down as a clown. I've got the professional experience, the chops, and my achy gay heart. Girl, let me know. Hit me the heck up. Serious as death.  
> -Foxbones

 

 

 

 

 

She smears blood all the way down the alley. Her hand on the wall an angry little Kandinsky, the red lines left from her fingers and the thick stroke of her palm arcing unpredictably until they fall, tracing her impact with the ground.

Yes, she knows about Kandinsky. She had initially studied art to impress a woman, a dark-eyed Italian with hair like a storm who had made a vague reference to 20th century abstract work during their correspondence. Villanelle had wasted the weekend before their first meeting by wandering the Louvre, frowning up at the bloated old faces in tempera who appeared amused that they were the key to her opening a pair of Florentine legs. She had accidentally started too far back, beginning with impressionism and hating most of it, rolling her eyes at the saccharine messes of disintegrating flowers. It seemed moronic: crowds politely shoving for the attention of something that was never alive or appreciative of their adoration. Villanelle had always liked beautiful things, still does, especially beautiful things that don’t know when to give up, but even now she insists that they have to respond, and intrigue, and bite back. She kept wanting to scream at these gawkers, the ones in queues to the Mona Lisa, the stupid little groups climbing up each other’s asses for a glance. None of this beauty cares about you. None of it so much as winks before the chase. Art, she thought, was overrated, and not an enjoyable tool for seduction. Before the date, which ended up being a complete disappointment - the woman was simultaneously passive and too sure of herself, a lethally uninteresting combination guaranteed to reveal a pillow queen - Villanelle had decided she didn’t like art as an institution.

Then, she had surprised herself and liked some of it very much. The angry satirical pieces. The ones that smacked you in the face and demanded your attention in some violent, cruel way, and caused people to have hysterics and ask that they not be shown in galleries or national museums where, heaven forbid, they might be confused for the very work they were insulting. Art whose existence was such a finger to the establishment that people considered it vulgar. She had become very fond of Dada, for example.

And nudes, obviously. She did love the female nudes.

Her knee smacks unpleasantly into stone when she falls. With her hand still balled into her wound, she doesn’t have time to catch herself, and her elbow follows, then her chin. The trick to handling extreme pain is in your breathing - she’s just had the wind knocked out of her and now it’s all rushing in at once, hot and miserable sensation crowding every inch of her. She lets out a muffled shriek into her elbow.

She knows from her rate of trembling that she isn’t going to have the energy to drag herself much further. She manages to pick her bleeding face up, and considers her options. None of them are preferable. One of them will certainly get her killed. One may lead to other people getting killed. Fuck it, though. Really, truly, just fuck it.

She’s going back to Eve.

Villanelle, an assassin of considerable repute feared the world over, slides on her belly with all the poise of a walrus, turning her body with agonizing, awkward effort back in the direction of the woman in her apartment and the strange unknowable curl of the future that such a decision holds.

But there are feet in her line of sight now, and a jab in her neck, and she’s hoarsely cursing as she goes under.

  
  
  


 

 

A white room. Or, not quite white, but a white window. Or, not quite a white window, but a wooden window with white curtains, parted at the middle like a woman’s hair, and something bright and green and blue beyond.

She turns, wincing at the dull thud of pain in her middle, now aware of the restriction of her body movements from whatever is pinching her skin there. Her mouth is impossibly dry. She sits up with effort, pulls herself out of the bed, takes stock: a window that cannot be opened, a plain room painted white, a bed, a nightstand with emptied drawers, a pair of white slippers tucked under the bed, a robe hanging from the closed door.

On her body: maintained hospital-grade bandaging across her torso, white cotton pajama bottoms, white cotton pajama top. From the familiar pinch and strain when she tries to stretch, likely stitches under the bandaging. Someone has brushed her hair and tied it up. She makes a face at this. She doesn’t care for people touching her hair.

The room is predictably devoid of things with which one can make trouble. Not that this eliminates the opportunity for escape, of course. At the window, she finds herself looking across a high Alpine meadow at a wall of jagged white peaks, like the world here is a grinning jaw broken open and torn from the flesh. There’s a modern a-frame chalet down the path from her window, and the hint of a few other buildings in the valley beyond, but nothing discernable.

The door opens behind her. She spins, but it’s a clumsy gesture because of her current physical state. A woman is standing there, a glass of water in each hand.

“It’s good to see you’re awake, Oksana.”

Villanelle would place the woman in her mid-sixties, age making her already strong cheekbones more severe, sharpening the edges of her features to a striking fineness. Her clothing is plain, comfortable and utilitarian, but there is still an air of something aristocratic about her - Villanelle has spent enough time in the company of well-bred people - fucking them, assassinating them, enduring them - to recognize another one in her midst, or at least someone who has done a decent job of imitating them. Her accent is heavy but strange, one foot out of a Romance language and yet tied to none of them in particular.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“It was in your best interest to remain unconscious during travel. And then, of course, following surgery.” The woman sets one of the glasses on the nightstand. A slice of lemon floats precariously atop the water. “I took your IV out this morning. You’ll want a drink, I’m sure.”

Her hand goes to her arm, but the only bruise there is faint, still violet-ringed. “How long has it been?”

“You don’t need to worry, you’re right on time. You should be awake today.”

“Is there a camera in here?”

“No,” the woman says, and sits on the end of the bed, understanding her implication. “I saw you at the window, so I thought I’d bring you some water. Would you prefer something else to drink?”

Villanelle makes a show of retrieving the glass from the stand and taking an audible gulp, but this provokes nothing in the other woman. She tries a different line of inquiry. “We’re in the Alps.”

The woman nods once, her accent still imperceivable. “Astute.”

“But which Alps, is the question.”

“Do you need to know your exact location?”

“At some point, yes.” She narrows her eyes, preparing to start the game. “Are you my new handler?”

“No.”

“Are you one of the Twelve?”

“No.”

“Competing interest? Adoring fan?” She pauses, pouting her lips in a parody of seduction. “Are you going to make me your sex slave?”

“I am your warden while you recover. You’re no good to your employers with a hole in your middle.”

“I don’t like the sound of it.” She pulls the slice of lemon from her glass, bites down. “Prisons have wardens.”

“This is hardly a prison, Oksana.”

“Villanelle.”

The woman says nothing for a minute, letting them both sit in the strange tense atmosphere of the moment: Villanelle, needing acknowledgement that this will proceed as is most beneficial to her; the woman, apparently not conceding in the slightest. “That’s a poem, isn’t it?”

“It’s what I like to be called.”

“I’ve never cared for nicknames, Oksana.”

“My friends call me Villanelle. “ She cocks her head, squints when she smiles. “I’d like us to be friends.”

A smile from the woman, her tone quite final. “Oh, no thank you.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

What begins is a routine: Villanelle is allowed to leave her quarters - a refurbished Alpine cabin, deceptively rustic on the exterior, with a bedroom upstairs and a bathroom beneath, all of it chic and bare in a cement-heavy but undeniably Swiss way - and enter the main chalet with her warden for most of the day, always under supervision.

The first day, Villanelle finishes her water and is shown where she can give herself a sponge bath. When she returns upstairs, there are clothes for her, simple but expensive, always with buttons. This repeats each morning; she bathes downstairs, and finds new clothing upstairs. Her warden waits outside, and walks with her to the chalet, where she is allowed to sit in one of three unlocked rooms

It is unbelievably dull, and it only takes her two days to become resentful of the situation.

They are in the main room of the chalet - a former great room with a fireplace at its center, everything angled and curved in ways that indicate expensive mid century styling, the kind favored by people who came into their money in generations past but don’t want to seem out of fashion. Villanelle knows about furniture like she knows about wealthy people who have always been wealthy: her warden is particularly fond of reading on a leather sofa of considerable worth, while she is confined to one of the smaller chairs, each their own example of prominent Scandinavian design. Likely a secondary home for some wealthy lowlander at one time, there is still an air of holiday to the place, but this is easily the worst holiday Villanelle’s ever experienced.

She is allowed books to read; most have to do with architecture, written in clinically dry prose. Some are pulp novels from the 60s about spies or women who enjoy seducing men or both. She pages through them as she sits cross-legged in her chair, frowning, occasionally letting out exaggerated sighs as she slumps further down in her seat.

“Stop sulking.”

She looks up at her warden, today in an orange jumpsuit, oversized square white frames at the edge of her nose as she reads Knausgård. Villanelle makes a face. “I’m not sulking.”

“You are.”

“I’m _not_.” She sticks out her tongue.

“They said you would be this way.”

“What way?”

The woman turns a page of her book, still not looking up at her. “Like a petulant child."

“Oh.” Her face pulls into her most saccharine smile, testing the edges. “Are you my new mommy?”

Nothing from the woman. She tries a new strategy.

“I will call you Mother, how about that?”

“I think you should save your Freudian issues for your women.”

“Are we not going to have a passionate affair?”

“I’m afraid I would rather die, Oksana.”

“You can do that, too. They are not mutually exclusive.”

“And who is going to kill me?”

Fine, a challenge. The bitch was foolish enough to leave a pencil on the side table. Dull, but not useless. She sits up straighter, grasps the utensil and--

_Thwack._

Mother’s book has just hit her square in the face. She groans, the palm she flattens to her numb nose coming away bright red. She looks up at the older women, whose expression is unchanged, flat and cool and underwhelmed, and she sucks the blood through her front teeth, still in shock and utterly unwilling to reveal that to her new obstacle.

“You _hurt_ me.”

“Hand me my book, Oksana, will you?” Mother is adjusting her glasses, pulling them to the end of her nose. “I seem to have dropped it.”

She aims it back at her, but her head’s reeling and she’s still too weak. Despite Villanelle’s best attempts, the woman catches the book one-handed instead of letting it smack her in her aquiline nose. She is frustratingly, perfectly adept.

“Thank you, Oksana.”

“You’re supposed to be healing me. Now you break my nose.”

“It’s not broken.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.”

“You’re a terrible mother.”

Mother gives her a long look, and then sighs, returning to her reading.

  
  
  


 

 

Finishing the selection of books takes her only another day, even with a few in Hungarian. She has insisted on icing her nose again - Mother seems set on withholding a medical icepack that might be of actual use and instead provides her with an awkward hand-sealed bag of frozen Wienerschnitzels with last December’s date. With all that done, Villanelle has time for her mind to settle on other things.

Some people meditate. Others fret. Villanelle is partial to pining.

Desire is one of our basest drives, after all. She’s always found it useful, an easy tool to pick up and harness (literally, at times) for motivation, or focus, or necessary distraction.

If she closes her eyes, she can imagine the shape of Eve’s body beneath her clothing. She’s one of those women who got leaner with age, evident in certain features - the ribs pushing gently at her skin, delicate wrists, her cheeks and jaw accentuating their most sensitive places where the bone is closest to the surface. But Villanelle knows there are other places that hide more plush things. She hasn’t seen a hard angle to her hips, not even when she was twisting next to her - there’d be a layer of softness there, something to cup with the hard jut of bone just a hint beneath, shifting when the rest of her rocks back and forth. Her nipples have always been hard around Villanelle - fear will do that, but lust will, too, which is another kind of fear, the fear of being without that which you want until it consumes you. She can imagine their color. She can’t tell yet if Eve is the kind of woman who covers her breasts when they’re first revealed, or if she’s the kind to walk around braless in her own home, the kind who stays naked long after fucking, the kind who eats fruit in her bed with the sheets in her lap, one leg crossed over the other, juice running down her chin and trailing down her chest and only wiped away as an afterthought.

“Oksana.”

There’s a way a woman will look at you when she wants you, particularly the straight ones. It’s a challenge. A fire lit behind the irises, a dare. Their mouth always tilts the same way, one corner lifting, a peek of tongue between teeth. Villanelle knows it well. It comes after curiosity, which comes after the confusion. This is always the logical progression. It was confusion at first, then it was curiosity when she faced her on the bed. So next would be the dare, but for now she can only -

“Oksana.”

She opens her eyes. Mother is holding a tray with her lunch on it, the juice in the glass matching the cranberry of her blouse, tied in a bow under her chin. Villanelle could strangle her with the bow if she got close enough, but she’s also very hungry, and she hasn’t been allowed in the kitchen, which could very well be a front. She raises an eyebrow to feign irritation.

“You interrupted me.”

“It didn’t look very important.”

“I was fantasizing, but it’s none of your business, _merci_.” She takes a greedy bite of toast first, eyeing the caviar for next. “What color are your nipples, Mother?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Oksana.”

“I’m not trying anything funny.” She pulls on the collar of her own shirt, looking down her bare chest. “Mine are dark pink. Average for my skin tone. Did yours change color when you got older?”

“How old do you think I am?”

She smirks. “Old enough to be my mother, Mother.”

“Spare your Mother such inquiry, then.”

“Children are meant to be curious.”

“Unfortunately, Oksana, you are not a child anymore, despite the fact that you insist on acting like one.”

She dips a finger into the caviar, ignoring the spoon and spreading it along her gums like cocaine, smacking loudly. At her warden’s face, she shrugs. “What am I supposed to do? You haven’t given me a knife.”

“You aren’t allowed one.” Mother goes to the bar on the other side of the room, unlocks it, and removes a decanter of what looks like scotch. “If you behave, you may be allowed one next week.”

“I don’t feel very trusted, Mother.”

The woman pours a drink for herself, smirking as usual. “That’s because you aren’t, Oksana.”

  
  
  


 

 

This morning, instead of passing the hallway and entering the great room where they’ve been spending most of their time, Villanelle tries one of the doors she has yet to see open. Mother waits for her, appearing unmoved by this particular demonstration of rebellion. She jiggles the handle, knocks at its surface to guess at the apparati underneath.

Mother clears her throat. “That door is locked.”

“Yes, Mother, that was obvious when I couldn’t open it.” She points at the knob in her hand. “Unlock it.”

Mother laughs. “You still think you can make demands.”

“ _Please_ unlock it,” she tries, gritting her teeth.

“Those are my private quarters, Oksana. I’m allowed my privacy.”

“But I’m not?”

“Whatever privacy you believe is being denied to you, it is for your own safety.”

“You watch me piss.”

“I do not, Oksana.”

“So there are no cameras in the bathroom?”

Mother shrugs placidly. “Have you found any?”

“No, but you could be very sneaky. How am I to know?”

“There are none in the bathroom, and none in the bedroom. I accompany you during the day so you do not leave prematurely, which you are in no condition to do at this time. I would not typically provide this level of patient supervision, but you are…” Mother purses her lips. “ _Unique_.”

“They think I’m a flight risk?” She rolls her eyes. “They are so melodramatic.”

“They warned that you would try to kill me.”

“That would be matricide.” She makes a show of crossing her fingers over her heart. “I’m not a monster, Mother.”

“You’ve tried to kill other maternal figures, Oksana.”

“Mommy issues are not the same as maternal issues, Mother. Two very different things.” She leans against the door, attempting to feel for extra reinforcement, but it seems to be a normal door. Mother eyes her, missing nothing, so she smiles. “Do you buy into the Oedipal nonsense? You mentioned him before.”

“You mean Freud?”

“Freud was an overrated misogynistic pervert.”

“I won’t disagree with you, Oksana. He was quite useless.”

“Most psychologists are useless.”

“I assume therapy hasn’t gone well for you.”

“I usually fuck my therapists.” She pauses, gauging the other woman’s reaction, then adds: “The female ones. The men are always repulsive. The women…” She makes a face, shrugs. “Usually harboring all sorts of things. Very kinky.”

“If you say so, Oksana.”

“Don’t mock me, Mother.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” She nods at the door behind Villanelle. “This is the last we’ll discuss matters of restricted access in my house, yes?”

“I doubt it.” She follows her into the great room, slinking like a cat, slumping back down into her usual chair. A new stack of books is sitting on the table beside her. She eyes them, then the other woman, who has already reopened her novel, and does not allow herself to look grateful.

  
  
  


 

 

Mother is changing her bandages, checking the stitches beneath with gloved fingers. Villanelle stares out the window, concentrating on the sun, balanced on the point of one of the many peaks in view across the high valley. From here, through the gauze of the curtains, it only looks like a glowing fruit, something for plucking and biting when ripe.

“You were lucky,” Mother says, apparently pleased with the progress of her handiwork and now taping down a new set of bandages. “The blade managed to miss the more inoperable zones. Very lucky, Oksana.”

Villanelle snorts. “Not really, but you're the doctor.”

“I am. You’re healing as expected, no complications.”

She puts her hands on her hips, waiting for the other woman to finish before re-buttoning her top. “So when’s my release date? When do I get out?”

“Do you consider yourself detained, Oksana?”

“I don’t consider myself free.”

Mother pulls off her gloves, snapping them and balling them in her hand. “Your stitches need to be removed first.”

“You know, Mother, they’ve got these crazy utensils now, they call them scissors, and anyone can buy them. Me included.”

Mother smirks, tilting her head. “Very clever, Oksana.”

“It can’t be too hard to snip a few threads, can it?” She flops onto her bed, belly down, legs up on her pillows. “I’ve scooped a bullet out of my own hip, you know. Dug it out with a spoon and a jackknife. Then I put the knife through the man’s eye socket when I caught up. Very efficient.”

“I did notice the scar.”

“I’m a tough little bitch, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t know why I can’t cut the things out myself. It’s just waiting for the hole to no longer be a hole and then you snip away, isn’t it? Doesn’t seem too complicated to me.”

“We both know I’m operating on someone else’s orders, Oksana.” Mother pulls open the curtains, bathing the room in the bright white of high altitudes in daylight.

“I’m dying for a cigarette,” she says suddenly, itching her wrist. “Could I get one today?”

“They’re not pleased with that habit. I’m meant to be giving you nicotine patches when you request cigarettes.” Mother’s smirk is unreadable as usual. “I don’t believe in that kind of corrective behavior, so I’ve left you to withdrawal for now. You can carry on when you return to your life, if you’d like. But within these walls, no. No cigarettes.”

“Sounds very fucking fascist to me.” She flips over onto her back, hands resting on her chest. “So, doctor. When will I be able to participate in strenuous physical activity again?”

“You’ve a while yet on that. You won’t be capable of killing anyone soon, if that’s what you’re asking.”

"First of all, I would disagree with that assumption, but I’m actually talking about sex.” She smiles at her. “When can I start fucking again, Mother?”

Mother sighs, already at the door, adjusting the lines of her high-waisted palazzo pants, a brilliant mustard silk that Villanelle has been envying since she first saw them. “It would depend on the specific acts. And I really have no interest in discussing them in greater detail, Oksana.”

“Never mind, I’m sure I’m fine.” She makes a face, lifting her arms out in front of her, still facing the ceiling. “My hands are in working order, aren’t they?”

“Unless your interest is in mountain goats, I’m afraid you won’t have any opportunity for practice while you’re staying here.”

“That’s awful, Mother.”

  
  
  


 

 

In the evenings, she does make sure certain things are still capable, though. In the rolodex of her mind, past partners, past acts, things that traditionally have worked in a bind for releasing certain pressures. None of them work anymore, not since the hospital toilets, but they offer other things now.

She met a girl once who liked to have her head pressed into a pillow, breath held, ass in the air, only ever taken from behind. This was in Bratislava, but the girl met her in Paris once, too, while on vacation with her boyfriend, available for a few hours when he took his parents to the Eiffel Tower. Villanelle had admired her lung capacity. It was a decent way to practice her Slovak as well.

When they’d finished, Villanelle had gotten out champagne from the fridge, orange juice from the freezer that she’d thawed unceremoniously in a plastic cup at the edge of her bed. The girl had watched, impassive as always, impenetrable in ways Villanelle admired (penetrable in ways she admired, too).

“Don’t bother,” the girl had said, just as Villanelle had pulled the cork off and let the first stream fall onto the balcony. “I’m not interested in being wooed.”

“I’m not wooing you.” She’d held up the bottle, making a face. “This isn’t very nice. I just don’t want to be sober right now.”

“You’re innately romantic, though.”

“I hate romance.”

“That’s a lie,” the girl had said, gingerly sipping the champagne. She’d refused the half-melted chunk of orange juice Villanelle had offered. “You like fucking, but you fuck like you’d rather be making love.”

This had made her very angry. She’d seethed in silence until the girl was finally out the door, and then taken it out on a mark at the end of the week by battering his face in a little more than was necessary. Once his nasal passages had unquestionably mixed with the rest of his cranium, she’d felt slightly better about it all, but she’d still wanted to reject it. Villanelle associated romance with something she herself was not associated with. Her love of the chase, the intrigue, the life altering sex, the deep connections on near-obsessive levels - none of this she considered romantic. This was a trait of psychopathy, she assumed. A magnetic pull towards the chaos of the unknowable. Typical, she thought, to be drawn in the direction of whatever was most unpredictable and likely dangerous. Playing with the fire that was human emotions spinning in others, that was the most dangerous act of all, wasn’t it?

There was a time she would think on this particular girl and their meetings and it would fuel her for a bit, the memory of the muffled moans she made into the pillow, the particular flush of her cheeks and white ring around her mouth when she finally emerged and looked at Villanelle over her shoulder, eyes wide as an animal’s as she took those huge breaths and came hard on her hand.

Tonight, none of that does anything for her. What she’s thinking about is the conversation, the accusation of Villanelle’s desire for romance, for love-making (what an awful fucking word, though), and she bites her lip in frustration.

Is there romance in wanting to know that Eve has turned away from her husband in their bed, waited patiently for him to fall asleep, counted his breaths and held her own, only to reach down and think of the knife point at her neck? Is there romance in hoping she has turned this confusion over a thousand times in her mind, on her commute to work, in the silence of the break room, wherever it is she pauses during the day when she realizes she’s been picturing Villanelle’s hands curling over a weapon?

When she sees her next, she wants to push her against a wall with her forearm pressed to her throat. She wants to hear the gasp Eve makes when she finds her breath again, and then the gasp she makes when she is entered. What is romantic about that?

When she sees her next, she wants Eve to beg her for this. She wants to be wanted beyond sanity. She wants to know in all this time, while she was imprisoned in some godforsaken Alpine compound, detached from the rest of the world, Eve was waiting, wanting, fucking herself in desperation, miserable at the thought that she might have killed the one thing that could get her off anymore. She wants Eve to ask her to say her name, and kiss her when she’s close, and stay pressed together long after they’re finished.

Hardly romantic.

  
  
  


 

 

After a week, she is no longer locked in at night. Her stitches have started to itch. Her bandage has changed to a lighter one, a white patch over the spot where Eve had dared her way inside -- which, Eve thinks, is rude, considering she had every intention of getting inside the other woman first. She’s already planned out something coy to say when they meet again and Eve has finally gotten a look at her scars. Something about how Villanelle ought to have been the one up to the hilt in the other woman, or how she would have much preferred to enter Eve the normal way, rather than a violent imitation in the opposite direction. Approximately.

She’ll figure out the wording later.

The nights on the mountain are quite cold, arguably freezing, but Villanelle expected this even before she’d let herself out, the permanent white of the peak joined lately by more seasonal dustings, and she didn’t exactly go to sleep in a parka. She breathes hard, willing herself to ignore the drop in temperature, stepping gingerly in her slippers down the frosted path to the chalet, crouched for silence, watching the windows of the bigger house for lights, seeing none.

She has taken a chance on the chalet being unlocked. Outside of where Villanelle is concerned, there is an air of detachment with Mother that is either a rouse or a very strange trait. But the doors to the chalet are locked, which is an interesting discovery. Not the trap or test she had expected.

Of course, a window is unlocked, enough for her to slide open and pull herself through. She is not exactly a super spy, more well-known for her ability to mercilessly beat down a mark rather than silently approach them with superhuman reflexes, but she doesn’t do a terrible job of entering quietly.

Back in the long ago days of training, there was a challenge in which they had to make their way into a locked room to apprehend a target. Most tried the lock. Some tried to threaten their way inside. Villanelle tested the strength of the wall, found it lacking, and shot her way through the plywood until she could kick her way through. She’s not above a honey trap - that may be her go-to these days, their fault for always giving her grown men with small penises to assassinate - but there’s something very satisfying in being able to noisily batter your way in and out of anything.

She pauses when her feet hit the floor, waiting for any movement in the house. None. Fine, Mother is either waiting patiently for her next move, or asleep. Neither changes her plans, so she goes to the room at the end of the hall.

The lock is not terribly difficult to break. Inside, even without the lights on, the room is clearly a study - a neat desk set into a Danish wall unit, a massive red canvas on the opposite wall. An Eames lounge chair, a metallic sculpture in the shape of a slightly misshapen sphere, perhaps a proto-Koons (tacky, she thinks, very tacky). Out the window, the tiny lights of the village in the valley, the stars barely visible through the cloud cover. She moves silently to the desk, pulls open the Macbook and rolls her eyes to see it is not so much as password protected. She falls into the chair.

_This fucking-_

There are no files. There are no documents. Worse, there is a link to a cloud account, but of course, _of course,_ there is no Internet. She pauses, making sure she hasn’t missed something, but no, it’s all clear. There is no WiFi signal. She searches for a cord, pulls open the two slim drawers to find nothing but a series of pens. Growls under her breath.

The light comes on in the study. Mother is standing there in the doorway, barefoot under a matching set of black linens, a tiny espresso sitting on the saucer in her left hand. How she silently approached isn’t even Villanelle’s first question.

“You’ve found my study, Oksana.”

She gestures at the laptop, not bothering to mask her frustration. “There’s no Internet.”

A small smile flickers on Mother’s lips. She sits down across from her in the Eames, perched on the edge as she crosses her legs. “That took you longer than I thought it would.”

“I need the Internet.”

Mother sips her coffee. “You don’t.”

“I run a very active fan forum -”

“You’re trying to find her.”

She pauses. Runs her tongue over her teeth, assessing the other woman. Mother only swallows her coffee, smiling placidly. Villanelle smiles in an imitation of civility

“It’s not polite to dig into someone’s personal business, Mother.”

“I didn’t dig. It was not necessary. It was spelled out quite plainly in your file when they gave it to me.”

“So they know where she is.”

Mother shrugs. “I’d have to inquire, but I have no interest in the matter.”

“Are they going to kill her?”

“I’d assume so. Well, I’d assume they already did. They don’t usually waste time in that department.”

A knot in her throat, unwelcome, unnatural - for her, of course, but quite natural for anyone else. She opens and closes her mouth, aware she looks like a fish, and resettles herself in the chair. “I wanted to kill her myself.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“ _Mother,_ ” she gapes.

“Petty revenge, perhaps, or a scratch, but you were never going to seriously harm her.”

She studies her. “Was that in my file?”

Mother puts the saucer down on the side table. “No, Oksana.”

“So you _did_ poke around.”

“Again, Oksana, quite unnecessary.”

“What are you implying, Mother?”

Mother only smirks, sitting up straight. “I’m sure you know.” She gets a curious look on her face, and Villanelle squints, never comfortable with the moment when someone becomes truly unreadable. “You’ll have learned a lesson when all this is done."

“From you?”

“From that hole I sewed up in your torso.” She reaches for her espresso again, sipping carefully. “They’ll make her pay dearly for it, you know. You should have known that when you let yourself become infatuated. It’s cruel to leave someone defenseless because you were careless.”

“Defenseless? She stabbed _me._ ”

“And now you are here, and she is out there, and you can imagine the price she is expected to pay.” She gestures at their surroundings. “Every minute you’re here is costing them. They’re not pleased with that. Who else will they take it out on?”

“So, they should have let me die. A bargain deal for everyone.”

“That would have ultimately cost them more.”

“How much more?”

Mother shrugs. “I don’t care about their budgets. A person is brought here, and I fix them. I’m never told exact numbers, but we can assume they’re quite high.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe if you cut down on all this priceless furniture and --” She leans back in her chair, toeing the spherical sculpture enough to rock it on its base. “Whatever the fuck this is, it wouldn’t cost them as much. The Euro’s looking shaky again, Mother. We could all learn to live a little leaner.”

“I take what I’m given. I don’t question it.” An arched eyebrow. “You’re not shifting the blame very well, Oksana. You’re trying, but it’s not going to work for you. My taste in interior design is not what is endangering Eve.”

“You know her name.”

“Did I not say it was in your file?”

Villanelle lightly jiggles the sculpture with her toe, slightly distracted. “It’s a nice name, isn’t it? I don’t know why it’s so erotic, but it is.” She repeats it a few times. “I think it’s the “v” sound. Or the biblical connotations. Original sin.”

Mother leans forward to stop the sculpture’s rocking, her palm flat over the metallic sphere. She gives Villanelle a look, one that is entirely new. “Consider this advice from woman to woman. If you must indulge in personal business, be prepared to fight for it. Do not enter into anything you wouldn’t tear another person’s throat out for, do you understand? The time might come when you have to do just that, and you may only be able to use your teeth.”

She meets her eye, expecting some sort of challenge, but Mother is only very serious in a way Villanelle still doesn’t recognize. She smirks, winks at her. “I’ll remember that, Mother.”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. a dear creature

 

 

 

 

 

Mother takes her on walks. They might even be mistaken for hikes, if they were equipped for it, or if Mother would allow her to go any further, but she typically stops once they crest a hill and have a view to mull over in shared silence -- if Villanelle doesn’t feel like punctuating the moment with some deflating comment about the last time her calves felt like this. Mother says this is to keep her legs from atrophying, which is a smirking exaggeration, but Villanelle will not snap back enough to lose her privilege of fresh air and the chance to better pinpoint her location. This time, Mother has taken her to a firepit fit for a proper chalet, a pile of wood artfully arranged, and produced from her canary yellow puffer coat a long match for starting a fire. From this point on the ridge, the peaks on the other side of the valley seem simultaneously smaller and larger, closer and further away, swallowing the sky with their yawns. Yet the sky here is endless, consuming in its own way, at times threatening even when bright blue and sunny and sweet as a picture. She cannot put her finger on what the illusion is, or its source. Perhaps the world’s ceiling is closer up here. The air is certainly thinner. If it makes her delirious enough to share her inner feelings, that must be it.

“I like it here,” she admits, staring out at the view. She does shoot Mother a look over her shoulder, though, to make a point. “Not enough to stay.”

“Of course,” Mother says, arranging the logs in the firepit. “I am not in the business of taking on lodgers.”

“I didn’t think I’d wake up here.” She pauses, unsure of what she will gain from sharing this information with her warden, but continues anyway. “I assumed they were going to retire me.”

A laugh. “You think you’re the first person to fuck a mark?”

She frowns. “We did not fuck.”

“Ah,” Mother says, her eyes flashing with some new meaning, smirking one of her frustrating smirks. “I see.”

“Don’t give me that look.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re so sour.”

“I’m not _sour_ about it.” She feigns helping, tosses the firewood into a haphazard pile, ignoring Mother’s previous instructions.

“Fine, Oksana,” Mother says, restacking the wood herself. “You are not sour.”

“Thank you,” Villanelle says, hands on her hips. She eyes the long match in Mother’s hands. “Are you really going to let me set a fire?”

Mother raises an eyebrow. “Do you plan on doing something uncouth, Oksana?”

“You know I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

She hands the match over to Villanelle. “Truly, you’re welcome to try.” She watches out of the corner of her eye as Villanelle strikes it, holds the flame up to her face. “I’m sorry, though,” she says, and Villanelle frowns.

“You’re sorry? What have you done, Mother?”

“I’m sorry that you won’t have the chance now.”

“Won’t I?” Villanelle drops to her knees, makes a gesture as if she’s about to swallow the match, and then winks, lighting the fire instead. “You really think she’s dead.”

“Or off being tortured in a cellar somewhere. In either case, I don’t think she’ll be eager to fall for you after all that trouble.”

“She’s already fallen for me.”

The fire starts, small at first, and then as Mother kicks a log into place, it all ignites with a furious little roar, orange and gold, white at its center, beautiful and enticing and deadly. Villanelle loves a good fire. Coals look like candy. Flames look like dancers. All of it something you’d want to put in your mouth before you realized your error.

Really, the metaphors are obvious.

  
  


 

She dreams of her on occasion, usually obscene, sometimes tender, always something off enough to remind her that it’s not real. Not yet, she thinks when her eyes flutter open. Not yet, she thinks, closing them again.

Eve bowing her head to have her dress unzipped. The nape of her neck in moonlight, a white ladder to another place and time.

Eve at the window. Red smeared in the corner of her mouth.

A line of white around a wrist. Wiping at the slick with her other hand, running wet fingers through her hair and knowing what catches and will dry there, slick and cum and blood and other things. Putting her hair up, spreading what’s left across her mouth and cheek, and then turning back to Eve, surveying the remainder of the feast, watching the feast writhe impatiently, and then seize her wrist, tug her down and down.

Eyes that widen with fear. Eyes that narrow with lust. Does she close them when thumbs brush certain places? Or are they huge as terror, thirsty for light, thirsty to take it all in? Some dreams multiply the eyes until there are eight, clustered above distinct cheekbones. Webs between fingers, webs that tug and rip, fall light as silk when thighs are parted. Those are strange dreams.

“I’ve been having these dreams,” she starts one morning, ready to lay out a particularly graphic or gory one like a slab of steak on a plate, but Mother holds up a finger.

“I have no interest in your dreams, Oksana.”

“But--”

“Keep them to yourself.”

“Really.” She messily slices her toast into quarters. “This is where you draw the line. Dreams.”

“Oh, I’ve drawn many lines, Oksana. You insist on crossing them regardless, but here I must insist.”

“Fine.” A noisy bite. Chewing with her mouth open. “But you’re missing out. They’re awfully juicy. You might even get off to one later. Sex dreams and murder dreams, sometimes one and the same.”

“Those two things are never the same,” Mother says. “Don’t let poets romanticize either in such a way that they conflate them. It’s disrespectful.

A face. “So she does have opinions!”

“I have many, Oksana. Some of us choose to keep our opinions to ourselves, though.”

  
  


 

 

Another walk, this time further, this time steeper until Villanelle’s calves really do ache and she’s secretly grateful for the high pasture that Mother finally sinks into, tall green grass and patches of violet-white aster rising to obscure both of them when they sit down. The ground is hard from the cooler evenings, wet from the snow that’s only recently receded in the unexpected sun. Villanelle falls back and closes her eyes, aware that the climb has made her side pinch more than it has in a few weeks, but holds back a wince.

“You’re in pain,” Mother says, but Villanelle opens her eyes and grins, hands behind her head.

“I feel lovely,” she lies.

“You’ve gone quite pale, Oksana.”

“I can go all sorts of colors.” She makes a show of holding her breath, cheeks ballooned. “Blue, if that’s your pleasure.”

Mother rolls her eyes, reaches into her deep green loden jacket and produces a square package, opens it to reveal the row of pastel cigarettes. “I know these aren’t your brand,” she says, and it’s true, these are Sobranie Cocktails, but god, her mouth’s already dry at the thought, her temples throbbing. “The last man who came through here favored them, and I’m afraid he left before he finished the pack.”

“Close enough. I always like the pretty ones.” Villanelle sits upright and snatches a pink one, sticks it between her lips and waits expectantly for the light. “I thought I wasn’t allowed any.”

Mother’s lighter is gold, sleek, initials engraved on the side that are half-covered by her thumb. Villanelle pretends not to look but Mother’s too quick, sliding it back into her pocket after flicking it closed. “Indoors, no. But we are not indoors, and you’ve made an effort.”

“So you’re rewarding good behavior now.” She nearly climaxes from the taste, holds it in her lungs as long as she can before exhaling. “Or are you conditioning me? Next time I see a cigarette, I’ll find myself complacent and drooling.”

“I am not Pavlov. You are not a dog.” Mother closes the case. “And these are just cigarettes.”

“Maybe you’re not a dog person. Are you a cat person?

Mother laughs. “Neither. Broken assassins are my pets, limping to my doorstep to have me take care of them. I don’t have the time for an animal with all of you showing up in multiple pieces.”

“Surely that isn’t constant.”

“You’d be surprised.”

A breeze picks up, ice cold, stirring the grass and the ends of her hair. Villanelle blows a trail of smoke into the wind, watches it flatten out and disappear. “It must be lonely up here for you, Mother.”

“Not at all. I want for nothing.”

“Everyone wants something,” Villanelle snaps a clump of asters from their stems, the cigarette tilted out the side of her mouth. “No one is immune. It’s a virus.”

“I don’t want anything.” Mother’s smirk is different now, tilted with a new meaning. “My time of wanting is finished, and I am content in its absence.”

Villanelle stares at her, and then laughs. “You are full of shit, Mother.”

“Don’t project, Oksana.”

“You say you have no time for animals. Everyone is an animal. Animals want things. They want to own things, they want to eat. They want to hurt people who have hurt them. They want to fuck. You’re no different, except now you’re a liar.”

“I’m sorry you’re incapable of imagining anything outside of your own experience. I’m sure that’s been difficult for you when you’ve found that no one understands you or desires to understand you.”

She’s unexpectedly stung by that, and unhappy that it could manage to throw her so far, so she narrows her eyes, works her bottom lip with her teeth, makes sure Mother can see these physical manifestations of her displeasure. But when Mother looks at her, she’s quite serious, even in that glance. Villanelle swallows her reaction so as not to waste it, tries something else.

“Why do you do this work?”

Mother does not miss a beat. “Why do you think you have the right to ask that?”

Villanelle shrugs. “We are both in the same business. We work for the same boss. This is water cooler talk.”

“This particular topic is one that demands respect from both parties in order to continue.”

“Why would you think I don’t respect you, Mother?”

Mother just gives her a look, and it’s all that is needed as a response.

“Well,” Villanelle shrugs again. “I respect you enough not to kill you, don’t I?”

“As I keep saying, Oksana, you’re not capable of it.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.

“Until proven otherwise, I’m sure.”

She digs in her proverbial heels. “How did you get into this business of repairing assassins on a mountain for the morally corrupt anonymous?”

“It’s quite simple, Oksana. Dull when I tell it.”

“Then it won’t take you long to tell me.”

Mother seems to consider her, eyes pinching for a minute, the old smirk returning as a newly twisting line that isn’t quite amused and isn’t quite perturbed, and then she looks away.

“In my life before this one, I was a doctor. A surgeon, respected in my field. I had a wife. I lived as most people did -- quietly, happily a good deal of the time. But my wife had a colleague, and he did things that were very inhumane to her, and then he killed her. I did what I needed to do. I made sure it was done in a way that was quite awful for him. As a surgeon, it was not difficult to do. I put my knowledge and my tools to use, and I made sure he suffered intensely. And then I turned myself in. I had nothing left to live for, so I felt it was as it should be.”

Mother pauses, her eyes on the pass in the distance. Villanelle watches the other woman for any sign of change in her expression or stance but finds none, waits for her to continue. After a minute, she does.

“I was taken by the police. They left me in the room at the station. A man entered. He offered me an option for moving forward. I did not want it. He told me in time I would. After I had been in prison for three months, he returned. I refused. In another three months, he returned. I still refused. When he came the fourth time, I agreed to go with him.”

Villanelle twirls an aster between her fingers. “Why that time?”

Mother looks at her. “Why did you go the first time?”

“I would have done worse to get out.” She smirks, sticks the stem of the flower in the corner of her mouth, replacing the cigarette. “It’d be a waste of my talents, don’t you think? Picking off delinquent girls in their cells because I had nothing better to do? I would have gotten very bored. Eventually I would have gone even more insane.”

Mother says nothing for a moment, then she leans back into the grass. “I don’t think you are a psychopath.”

“Is that your medical opinion?”

Mother shrugs. “Perhaps my background has influenced my thinking. But no, it is an opinion I have formed all on my own.”

“You’re going against the stance of modern medicine, I think.”

“Am I? Modern medicine says psychopaths are unbelievably rare. It’s the medical professionals who seem too eager to diagnose it.”

“Are you having trouble accepting how special I am, Mother? Doesn’t every Mother want a very special child?”

“You are special, Oksana. But you are not that special. Humans are antisocial for more reasons than existing personality disorders.” She closes her eyes, tilting her face to the sun, always slightly unconcerned with the state of things. “Besides, you are quite disorderly by choice, aren’t you?”

“What are you implying?”

“Some people fill every trait in the textbook definition of psychopathy and are not, in fact, psychopaths.” She turns, finally looking at Villanelle. “Some people are just cunts.”

Villanelle pretends to be wounded by this, clutching her chest and falling backwards into the grass and the flowers, the pink cigarette raised above her head.

  
  


 

 

That evening, the laptop in Mother’s study is already opened when Villanelle lets herself in under cover of supposed secrecy, the screen’s blue light revealing a minimized window labeled _Eve_Clone_Desktop_Live_.

“Very funny, Mother,” she grunts, kicking her slippers off across the room, amused at what she assumes is a half-mocking joke. This is just an extension of the easy banter that has risen between them, snips following snips, tiny little wounds and finger pokes and barbs meant as a type of respect, almost. She’s grown used to it. If she wanted to admit it, if she thought she were capable of it, perhaps she will or would miss it.

Villanelle sits down, gnawing on a nusstorte saved from dinner, and puts her bare feet up on the metallic sculpture, pulling the computer onto her lap. She smirks as she expands the window, ready for a clever little image Mother’s mocked up in her free time, and then her eyes widen at the realization as she clicks around it, watches the screen react and new files opening in response.

It is a live clone of Eve’s personal desktop, a remote window into the exact current display of Eve’s Macbook.

But it must be fake, surely. There’s no way Mother would offer her such a prize. The equivalent of offering an addict a premium amount of heroin -- unregulated, unsupervised, underestimated.

She clicks through the files, runs the background code to see if she’s off. Villanelle is not a hacker, but it’s certainly in her toolkit, enough to know for sure if this is the real deal in her lap.

It’s real. She is currently on a cloned, live-updated version of Eve’s Macbook.

She swallows what’s left of the nusstorte and grins at the ceiling, a grin straight from delirium, where she imagines Mother is either sleeping soundly or waiting in the darkness for her ward to discover her prize. “Thank you, Mother,” she whispers, ever the appreciative child, and then gets to work.

  
  
  


 

 

Eve’s Gmail automatically opens from her Safari tabs. In her drafts, an unfinished email to intended recipient lgoodkind@lse.ac.uk, with the subject line “Hello”.

_Hi Luci,_

_How have you been? What’s happened in your life since we last saw each other? Probably a lot, since it’s literally been seven years. Eight years? A long time. I don’t have Facebook or else I’d look you up. I don’t Google people as a rule either, so, whatever you’re doing with your life, you’ll have to spell it out here. Only if you want to spell it out, obviously. This is probably a surprising email. You’re probably sitting there shocked. Anyway._

_I live in London and work for the government._

_I am in a relationship with_

_I am currently_

_This is going to sound random, because it is random while also being highly specific but_

_This is probably strange, but_

_You know that night we got stoned at your brother’s flat and I said I needed to get home but you said it’d be too late so we stayed on your brother’s couch like we were teenagers and we started kissing and you fingered me and we messed around for a while until your brother stumbled in drunk and pissed on the kitchen floor?_

_So first of all this is not some weird email where I confess that I have been desperately in love with you all this time but I’m in a strange situation and I was thinking about this particular encounter and how it may have affected us or revealed something about us and_

_Are you a lesbian now_

_I am not a lesbian but_

_I think you maybe got married a few years ago but I couldn’t remember and if so do you still find yourself sexually attracted to women because_

_God I must be an idiot for sending you this but_

Villanelle lets out a bark of laughter a few times as she reads the draft, and then rereads it. And rereads it again.

  
  
  


 

 

In Eve’s Sent messages, there are any number of interesting specimens. First, an email to someone in her contacts as ‘Karol Frontman’. The subject line “SOS”.

_Karol,_

_I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore._

_I probably would have written this from the perspective of someone else’s dilemma and tried to mask it as “my friend is going through this, can you even imagine, this crazy bitch, etc” but that would be a lie, and you see right through my shit, so I’m just going to be honest. It’s my dilemma. It’s my problem. It’s...maybe not a problem, but I don’t know yet._

_Do you remember that night we got drunk a few years back and talked about the craziest things we’d ever done? I told you about that thing with Luci. I guess now saying it was ‘crazy’ at the time was kind of homophobic of me or something since technically it was a tame little fingerbang but honestly, Karol, do you remember how I asked you if you’d ever been attracted to a woman before and you said that’s pretty normal and we moved on to the next thing?_

_I think I want to have sex with a woman. Not in an experimental way. In a very deep, consuming, serious way. I want to have sex with a specific woman._

_I know, I know. Either you’re shocked or not surprised at all. I can’t tell how obvious this has been. Somehow it feels as obvious as a trainwreck, but the way I’ve debated and made myself sick over everything, I don’t know. I thought I knew myself entirely and now I’m sitting here trembling while I type. I had to go get more wine to finish this sentence. Am I an idiot? Probably. I’m probably a fucking idiot, Karol._

_I have turned this over in my head a thousand times now, maybe more. Have you ever had something eat away at you with a vengeance? Sometimes I think I can literally feel it gnawing at my insides. I think I can feel the actual bite marks. Maybe they’re hers. I used to read about this kind of thing - physically aching for another person - and you know, obviously I know what it’s like to be attracted to someone, obviously I’ve felt it before, obviously._

_But I’ve never felt anything this intense. I don’t know what to do with it. It’s exhausting. It’s like being turned up to one hundred all the fucking time. I’m literally losing sleep over it. Not because I’m worrying myself, but because of the physical ache. I thought people were exaggerating. I thought this was one of those lies that ends up in poetry because it sounds nice. The aspirational metaphor shit that sells greeting cards. God, it’s fucking real and it’s awful. Is this why teenagers all act like such fucking idiots? I never felt like this as a teenager. Maybe this is why Romeo killed himself. You always think that sounds insane and unbelievable, but I don’t know, Karol. I don’t know anymore._

_Okay, now I’ve probably had too much wine. Don’t get worried. I know you told me when Nico left that I have to be more careful about my tendencies but I’ve honestly been fine. Except for this one thing. And I don’t know if it’s a tendency or an obsession or a phase or what it is. You’re probably going to be mad I didn’t just call you to tell you all this but I haven’t said any of this out loud yet to someone who isn’t her and I don’t even know if I’m capable. I’m terrified to even type it into Google. Usually I need to look up everything, you know how I am, but somehow I don’t this time. Remember that guy I dated when I was twenty four, the one with the earring? Gary, he was that investor but he had the earring. You remember, of course. That stupid earring. God, how did I survive my fucking twenties with a scrap of integrity left? Anyway, he used to like watching porn together for some reason. It wasn’t amazing because his taste was garbage but I’ve seen a lot of lesbian porn as a result. I have a decent idea of what happens, definitely with less double dildos than they’d make you believe, but I mean...if you put a gun to my head, I could probably describe the general concept._

_I always thought if I eventually swung that way for a bit, I’d have to do my research and brush up so it wasn’t a complete guessing game, but honestly, Karol? Honestly? Not necessary. At this point I’m pretty sure she just has to touch me and I’ll spontaneously combust._

_I don’t want to get gross on here but I’m just saying. This is insane, Karol._

_I haven’t seen her in a month. I haven’t told you about her or how we met and you honestly don’t need to know because we’re so far beyond the origin story at this point. None of that matters now that I’m as far gone as I am. I could have met her in a trash can and it wouldn’t matter - I still think of her constantly, and think about what it all means, and only in the last week or so have I let myself admit that this is something to do with adult feelings. Fine, it’s sexual. Erotic. Whatever._

_Sometimes it feels like she’s always been there in my head. Some dark little seed of her tucked away in my brain for years. Now it gets to germinate, and it’s got these long roots and it’s going to hurt like hell when it bursts through my skull, do you know?_

_I’m officially tipsy so forgive me for saying this, but she’s fucked me so many times in my mind that sometimes I forget we’ve never actually touched like that._

_God, I’m sorry, I know, I know. But I mean it, Karol. Can you believe this? Can you honestly believe I’m like this? Wha ta fucking mes s._

_I’m so s orry. Honestly IAM so sorry for this ridiculoius email._

_Eve_

Villanelle lets her tongue roam her mouth as she reads, and then lets out a sigh as she finishes, grinning in spite of herself. She's read mail before -- post, emails, love letters, spy missives, anything that's meant to made her job easier. And some women, too, the kinds who keep diaries in their nightstands and don't expect you'll dig into them when they go to shower, don't expect that you've been reading for details, searching, seeking out some weakness or vulnerability that might detach them from your side or liberate you from the deep root you've dug into their interior. She loves the feeling of uncovering the small pieces of a person they have hidden and do not expect anyone else to see -- and they are always small, because the big things, even the big secrets, are not really who they are. The smaller, the more insidious, that's always where the heart of the woman lies, burrowed in like a tick. 

But this is different. She's salivating without realizing it, her heart throbbing in her throat, her knee bouncing.

God, it's perfect. This is fucking perfect. Art.

  
  
  


 

Another email sits above that one in Sent, to the same recipient.

_Hey,_

_I drank too much last night and should not have been behind a keyboard. I’ll talk to you on Sunday, and if you want to bring up the email, we can talk about it, or if you want to just forget you ever saw that and chalk it up to a post-breakup moment, we can do that, too. I’ll see you when I’m back in town._

_So sorry._

_Also, I took your advice and all communications with him are in written form now so there’s a record moving forward._

_Eve_

  
  
  


 

 

An email to a contact labeled ‘Nico’.

_I’ve sent over your post. The rest of your things that you asked for are in the box in the hall. I don’t care when you come over - I’m not home. Slide key through the letter slot when you leave._

_E._

  
  
  


 

 

But it is only part of the bounty.

“iMessage logs?” Villanelle smacks her lips. “God, you beautiful unsecured idiot.”

 

 

 

 

> Hey.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> I don’t really know what I’m doing.
> 
> I’m really not looking for anything right now.
> 
> So I don’t want you to think I’m just a shithead or something.
> 
> That’s fine, you said it was your first time.
> 
> Really nothing to apologize for.
> 
> Right, it’s just.
> 
> You know.
> 
> It feels shitty to take you home and then blue ball you.
> 
> I don’t have balls, luv.
> 
> It’s honestly fine.
> 
> Can I ask you a weird question?
> 
> I suppose it’ll depend on how weird it is.
> 
> What’s with the whole top and bottom thing?
> 
> Is that just the boys or do the girls have that, too?
> 
> Ah.
> 
> I suppose that’s complicated.
> 
> If I want the girl to fuck me, does that make me a bottom?
> 
> Does that mean I can’t reciprocate?
> 
> I’m just trying to figure out the etiquette here.
> 
> LOL
> 
> Sorry, is that not something I should ask?
> 
> Not much etiquette to it, luv.
> 
> You know in the moment, I’ll put it that way.
> 
> Okay, but like...say we had actually done it last night.
> 
> Would you be expecting me to do most of the work or you or?
> 
> What do you think?
> 
> You seemed to be uh.
> 
> Well.
> 
> Steering the ship.
> 
> Right, you’re on to it there.
> 
> Is there like...
> 
> Somewhere you learned about that initially?
> 
> Hands on experience.
> 
> Got it.
> 
> You’ll know when you know.
> 
> You’ll know when you’re in front of her.
> 
> Does that make sense?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Definitely.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> So sorry if that’s awkward or insensitive to ask.
> 
> It’s fine.
> 
> You’re figuring things out.
> 
> Happy to help.
> 
> I’m going to delete my Tinder profile.
> 
> So don’t be weirded out if I disappear.
> 
> I promise I haven’t blocked you.
> 
> Just should probably get off there until I know what I’m doing.
> 
> No skin off my back, luv.
> 
> Good luck with it all.
> 
> Enjoy the city, let me know if you need anything - expats should stick together.

  
  


 

 

The next morning, Mother is typically quiet at breakfast, sipping her espresso, reading Proust today in an all-black ensemble, a slim shadow perched on a priceless chair.

“What is your first language?”

Mother blinks, not looking up from her book. “You don’t know.”

Eve narrows her eyes. “I think you have been trying to trick me by imitating a number of them.”

The woman tilts her head back to release a barking laugh. “You’re so clever that you’re stupid.”

“That’s mean, Mother.”

“Romansh,” the woman says. “My first tongue is Romansh.”

“Will you teach it to me?” 

Mother’s smirk is back, and she looks at Villanelle now, head tilting. “They said you enjoyed languages.” 

“Teach me Romansh poetry. Something romantic.” 

“Is this your new technique? You really think it will work on her?” She laughs again. “You are like a teenager with a crush.”

“I want to send an email. I want to send her the poetry in the email. I want to call her phone and recite it.” Villanelle stares pointedly at her, attempting to communicating with her eyes, but of course Mother is looking at her expectantly, drawing it out of her. “I found the cloned laptop.”

“Mhm,” Mother says, putting the espresso to her lips again.

“Quite a find.” She swallows a forkful of egg, and then wipes her teeth with her tongue. “Someone would have to use her physical laptop for the first copy, wouldn’t they? Someone would have to steal the laptop, install the software, and then return it to her without noticing. She’d never unintentionally download the key, so it’d have to be placed there in person. That’s a lot of work for something trivial.”

“Is it trivial, Oksana?”

“It’s a lot of work for you.”

“When have I left this mountain, Oksana? We see each other nearly every hour, and I’m sure you’re aware that I’m not sneaking out at night like a teenager. That’d be childish.” A look. Well, of course.

“Maybe you asked someone to do it.”

“Oh, I had nothing to do with it. I’d say it’s lucky but when you’re privy to certain things, certain things make themselves known to you.”

She narrows her eyes. Mother shrugs. Villanelle stabs something else on her plate, unsure of what exactly since she refuses to break her gaze. “You’re being vague, Mother.”

"You are not the only one looking at her laptop, Oksana."

“Satisfying your curiosity?”

“I’m not curious by nature, Oksana. No, they are the ones looking.”

“That’s interesting, Mother.”

  
  


 

 

Tonight, next to the laptop, a phone.

Another type of person would be cautious. They would think this is stupid, a target on her back. But that person is themselves stupid, like most people, bless them.

They know where Eve is. Eve appears to be alive for now; it will be easy enough for them to render her otherwise, so if they were in a rush, it’d be done. They know Villanelle’s attachment. They know Villanelle knows where Eve is, perhaps even her number, her email, her personal identifying information. Reaching out would be something they’d expect. She’d say they’ve bugged her phone, but there’s nothing for them to gain from it. Not to get anything from Villanelle -- they’re investing in her healing, so they’re not interested in retiring her yet. Not to get anything from Eve either -- if they’re this far in, there’s nothing left for them to know, and they have what they want, if there was anything they wanted.

So she calls. Mother did her this much of a favor, so she calls.

It rings through to the voicemail. She breathes, considers it, and then hangs up. No, she has no interest in making it easy. That’s never been the routine. If she’s going to eat it, swallow it whole, she prefers it to be alive and wriggling.

She’ll try again tomorrow night. For now there’s enough to snack on.

  
  


 

 

Eve’s started syncing her phone’s notes to her laptop. It’s really too perfect, really too perfect altogether. Some are grocery lists, mundane, and yet Villanelle could roll around in anything mundane in Eve’s world, get herself filthy with it. Something about the thought of Eve buying toothpaste makes her mouth water.

She has many notes that are just song titles, as if she’s remembering them or discovering them or assigning them some sort of meaning.

_La nuit n’en finit plus - petula clark_

_Ma l’amore no - lina termini_

_ABBA - S.O.S._

_Corcovado - gabor szabo_

_Serenata do adeus - elizeth cardoso_  

Villanelle sucks on the end of a toothpick, re-reading the list until she realizes the connection -- these are all vinyls Villanelle has in her apartment. So Eve stayed long enough to look carefully. But the notes are all from different dates, as if she is returning to the apartment at different times, returning over and over and playing different records.

It’s preposterous, the idea of this woman staying in Paris or flying over on weekends -- but no, some of the dates are weekdays, so that wouldn’t be it, she’d have to be there continually -- just to return to Eve’s apartment, to go through her things, to play her records. And yet Villanelle can picture it so perfectly that it must be true, just from how quickly it comes to mind, leaps to life. Eve in her bed, nursing a drink, staring at her ceiling like a teenager, Petula Clark spinning from the other room. Eve going through her closet, putting things back together. Did they send someone to clean it for her when they shipped her to the Alps? Unlikely. They usually expected you to clean your own messes, learn lessons, sit in your own shit and accept it, much like strict parents. She’d tested her boundaries enough times to know that they were not going to hire a housekeeper even if you pushed over every vase in the house.

Eve smelling her pillow. Eve carefully sweeping, pushing items back into place, sliding drawers closed. Eve starting another record, kneeling in front of the player in her underwear. Eve keeping her own food in the refrigerator, a new bottle of whiskey, a new bottle of wine. Eve sleeping in the bed, ignoring her hotel room. Eve wandering downstairs to buy flowers, a few items, toothpaste. Eve buying toothpaste. Eve in her bed, face buried in her pillow, mouth smacking of peppermint, half-open now, moaning softly, her hand between her legs, her clothes gone, her mind on the moment before the shot, the moment before, the moment between, the sensation of Villanelle seizing her by the wrist and pressing her into the bed while sliding into her, Eve shuddering, Eve --

Villanelle spreads her legs, head lolling back, fingers finding the usual spot with an unusual hunger. Mother should be grateful she isn’t doing this in the Eames.

  
  


 

 

“Why are you being so generous with me?”

Mother eyes her, then nods further up the path. So they are climbing higher today. That may be why she made Villanelle dress warmer, and left boots in front of her door in the morning. “Am I being generous, Oksana?”

“You are making things too easy. The laptop, the phone.” She stretches her gait when she climbs, smirking when there’s no pain in her side today. “It’s almost like you’re testing me.”

“Testing you,” Mother sounds like she’s still smirking, though Villanelle can only see her back, shoulders narrow in her bright yellow jacket. “I’ve drawn all my conclusions about you already. There’s nothing to test." 

“Maybe they want you to test me. It just seems too perfect. Give the rat sugar, give the rat all the cocaine it wants, give it five tunnels every which way. See which tunnel the rat picks in its delirium and joy.”

“Well, I don’t see it that way. I thought I was equipping you.”

“For what?” 

“For what you are meant to do when you are healed and ready to return to your work.” 

She stops. “Do they want me to kill her? Is that what this is about?”

Mother continues walking up the path, but smiles over her shoulder. “No, Oksana, they’re quite aware you’re incapable of it.” 

“Did they tell you to give me the laptop? Was that it?”

“So many questions today,” Mother says. “And on a morning meant for physical exertion, not quizzing.”

“I won’t go further until you answer me.”

Mother waves a hand over her shoulder, not stopping. “Fine, then. But it’s a lovely view today, I won’t wait for you.”

She sighs. Considers her options, weighs them. Knows Mother’s patterns. Groans as she follows, skipping to catch up.

  
  


 

“Do they know I can see her computer?” 

Mother hands her the water, brushing snow from her boots. “No, Oksana.”

“Do they know you’ve let me see it?”

Mother pulls on her sunglasses, squinting up at the brilliant high altitude light. “No.”

“Why?" 

“Why? Because I haven’t told them.”

“Why haven’t you told them?”

Mother takes the water back from her, takes a sip, is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” she says after a while. “I could not explain it to you if I tried. Perhaps I'm bored and trying to get us killed. Or perhaps I am a romantic in my later years." She gives Villanelle a look. "Perhaps it is both. Either way, you're benefiting, aren't you?"

She cannot technically argue with that.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. spoilt

 

 

 

 

 

“I thought about what you said." She's licking the corner of her lip where sweat has dried, tasting salt.

“Oh?” Mother raises an eyebrow. They are sitting as they usually do in the afternoons, only Villanelle has been healed enough that she can stretch across the various surfaces of the chalet, or do push-ups on the floor, usually until she starts to noticeably perspire -- Mother isn’t enthusiastic about her sweating on certain priceless furniture or rugs. Mother has come to tolerate this behavior, though Villanelle is not allowed to make inappropriate comments about what all the stretching and exercising is for, and has been given extra changes of clothes to keep up with the activity. An orange Gucci tracksuit was sitting on her bed earlier this week when she’d returned from her shower.

“Yes,” she continues. “About me not being a psychopath.”

“And what are your thoughts, Oksana?”

“They’re a bit long. Well, it’s a single thought, but it’s a long one.”

“Alright then.” Mother puts down her book, looks at her. “Tell me.”

She settles onto her usual chair, legs crossed beneath her. “Near where I was born, there was an explosion at a nuclear plant. Not when I was alive, but when my grandmother was alive. They made her leave her village, and go with her husband to another city until everything had been cleaned. But they never returned, they wouldn’t let them. You know how governments are, and ours was its own special kind of miserable, even then. I can’t tell if it’s better or worse now. Bureaucracies are always full of useless fuckers, aren’t they? Anyway the officials told them that they would be fine in their new home because the city was safe, but she said the fish in the river there had too many gills, and people died young just like the ones who’d left the village. Her husband’s breathing got worse. Something was growing in his chest, like a big hard fruit. She said you could see it in his throat when he opened his mouth. Then one day he was gone, no more breaths. I don’t know if she was particularly sad about it. After her husband died, I think she only had an appetite for husbands, so she fucked a man with a wife and lost track of him the next day. She never said how, just that she couldn’t find him again. Like a set of keys. In nine months she gave birth to my mother. My mother did the same thing, can you imagine? Fucked a married man and misplaced him within twenty four hours. She raised me in a building where you could see the Urals from the windows. I think she thought it would keep us from the contamination, being up high like that, like the waste is only on the ground, skulking around while we were out of reach.”

Mother is watching her, and it’s as much an examination as a polite meeting of eyes, her gaze pointed when her eyes narrow. “That’s very interesting, Oksana.”

“I’m telling you this because sometimes I think that we were contaminated anyway. Not with tumors or something extra growing inside. Something else. And that’s why I am the way I am. We thought we escaped it, but we didn’t.”

“Is any of this true?”

She cocks her head, smiling, slides along the floor until she’s stretched her entire left leg. “Doesn’t it seem true?”

“Most of your lies do.”

“But we’ve been so honest lately. Every girl wants a mother to tell all her secrets to, doesn’t she?” She gives her a smirk as she gets to her feet. “I don’t know, my understanding of maternal roles is a bit warped at times.”

“Maybe the honesty of late has been a bit frightening for you, and now you’re trying to backtrack.” Mother nods. “You’re trying to throw up some last facade of distance between us, and that’s fine.”

“So you really think that was all a lie, that I just made up some story.”

She knows Mother is still watching her as she drops into her push-ups. “You’re more than capable of it.”

“I am more than capable of many things, Mother.”

“I know, Oksana.” And the look Mother gives her is strange, and Villanelle has to slow down so she can peer up and see her better, but there is nothing there that tells her anything. Something about her expression is nostalgic, maybe, or sad. She can’t tell. Not that this is new with Mother, always unreadable and distant, but she should know more by now. Anyone else she would be able to read like a book after all this time. Damn her.

 

 

 

 

 

She’s nearly healed. A week out, Mother says, and one evening the stitches are removed, Villanelle nursing a glass of orange juice with a straw as Mother bends over her, snipping away.

“I’m going to text her,” she says.

Mother smirks as she begins applying a new bandage. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Are they reading her messages?”

“They’re being archived somewhere, I’m sure. But an active interest is not being taken, no.”

She sucks noisily on the straw, brow furrowing. “Why?”

“Well, she’s not much of a threat, is she? They won’t waste the resources to finish her off because it’d take too much clean-up, seeing as she’s very embedded in things where missing people are an interest. Besides, they’ve deemed her incapable of doing significant damage. I think they see her as a nuisance more than anything. ”

Villanelle snorts. “They underestimate her.”

Mother finishes the bandage, nods at her own work. “She couldn’t even properly kill you, could she?”

“I don’t think she wanted to kill me.”

“So this was a playful nudge, is that it?”

“It wasn’t really about me.” She sits up, slides the empty glass onto the nightstand. “When I first came here, you told me she was off being tortured somewhere, paying for her crimes. Why have you changed your tune so drastically?”

“I didn’t know anything outside of what was in your file. I made assumptions. Now I’ve looked into it and I know better.”

Villanelle narrows her eyes, studying the other woman. She runs her tongue over her teeth, an expression she’s found usually unnerves other people, mostly because she does it before she kills them. “Huh. This is interesting.”

“What is?”

“You’re turning my attraction against me. That’s the best way to manipulate me, isn’t it? Maybe that was in my file, or maybe you figured it out on your own.” She sighs. “I mean, I don’t try to hide it. I’m a classic stereotype of the obsessive female deviant, what can I say?”

Mother cocks her head, her hands smoothing her silk blouse, a bright emerald cut down the middle, revealing a pendant of silver that descends the stairs of her ribs.

“That’s quite a leap, Oksana.”

“Why not? They’ve done it before.”

“I’m not manipulating you. I am not using anything against you.”

“They used Anna.” She frowns at this memory, pushes herself off of the bed. Her bare feet are cold on the floor. “They loved to use Anna. They were lazy like that. They could have found a dozen other skeletons in my closet but they decided on the most obvious.”

“And did it work?”

“Of course. I’d killed for her before.” She turns, gives Mother a look. “She asked me to do things and I did them. Not like the job, though. If Konstantin told me to do something and I wasn’t in the mood, I usually told him to go fuck himself. If she asked me to zip up her dress, I’d crawl on my knees all the way from Paris just to do it with my teeth. Got it? That is what it was like. That is what they could hold over my head.” She sighs, making a face, zipping her tracksuit top back up. “I mean, it worked. Why wouldn’t they keep doing it if it worked?”

“Oksana,” Mother leans forward. “I am not holding anything over your head. I promise.”

“Oh, you _promise_?” She snorts. “Do you pinky promise? Do you cross your heart and hope to die?”

Mother’s face remains calm, impassive, only slightly betrayed by her eyes. They are more concerned than usual. Perhaps that’s what she looks like when she is found out. “It’s fine if you don’t believe me now. I know our relationship has largely been outside of your comfort zone, and you’re not used to this kind of trust. It’s natural for you to be afraid.”

“And now you’re pounding the ‘mommy issues’ angle.” She makes a face, nods in approval. “It’s a decent way to go, I’ll give you that. It usually works.”

“I have no angles in this.”

“Did you make up the story about your wife, too? That was good. You thought you’d play to the Sapphic tendencies, too, huh? I’d trust you quicker if we both like munching carpet, very clever. You probably have some husband somewhere and five kids, right? Or a boy toy in the village in between patients. God.” She sucks her own lip, shaking her head. “I’m really too easy sometimes.”

“Oksana--”

“It’s fine, there’s no hurt feelings here.” She winks. “I mean, I’m not allowed out of this compound for a few more days. I have to put up with you until I know how to leave. Then I can kill you.”

  


 

The door to the study is unlocked this evening, perhaps as an apology. She almost rolls her eyes at this. The laptop is there, closed. She thinks about it, but there are more interesting prospects now. The phone is still on the desk, and she takes it with her outside, pleased there is still a signal even from her room.

 

 

 

>  
> 
> Hello Eve.
> 
> Sorry, I don’t have this number saved. Who is this?
> 
> The last person you stabbed.
> 
> Well, I’d HOPE I’m the last person you stabbed.
> 
> Perhaps you’ve got a taste for it now.

  
  


 

 

It takes another hour before she gets a response. The buzz on the nightstand wakes her, and she rolls over, smirks at the message.

 

 

> How do I know it’s you?
> 
> I’ll call you.
> 
> I don’t know about that.
> 
> Why not?
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> I don’t want to talk to you.
> 
> We’re talking right now.
> 
> But it’s real if we speak to each other.
> 
> Does that make sense?
> 
> Then how am I supposed to prove that it’s me?
> 
> Leave a voicemail.
> 
> Call through and I won’t pick up.
> 
> And so I know you didn’t just record Villanelle at some point, you have to say “Hello Eve. I won’t kill you.”
> 
> And you have to mean it.
> 
> I can do that.

  
  
  


 

 

“Hello Eve. I won’t kill you. But look, I wasn’t _going_ to kill you, that was already determined, and we’ve been over this, so it would be _really_ nice if you could get it into your head that I’m not going to harm you at any point. I am not a Bond villain. I am not a child. I am not seeking revenge. See, you were the one seeking revenge for me ruining your life or however you saw it, and you enacted revenge when you stabbed me, so now we’re even. If I harm you, you have to harm me back, we have to start the whole stupid process over again, and that can get old very fast. Eventually, it’s fucking exhausting, and all the heat’s out of it, and we just hate each other. So I’m not going to do that. And neither are you, alright? We’re even now, I promise. We’re even. Anyway. It’s me, Villanelle.”

  
  
  


 

 

This time, the lag in messages only takes a few minutes.

 

 

 

 

> Fuck.
> 
> It’s nice to talk to you, too.
> 
> Yes, I’ve been fine, thank you for asking.
> 
> Shit.
> 
> Is this really how you hold a conversation?
> 
> I thought you Americans loved yapping away.
> 
> I knew you weren’t dead.
> 
> Feminine intuition?
> 
> Someone would have already killed me if you were.
> 
> Not always a good indicator.
> 
> Sometimes they like to sit back and watch until you’ve shown off a particularly interesting weakness.
> 
> They’re tricky bastards like that.
> 
> Sick bastards, too.
> 
> They’re probably reading this so let me emphasize that they are sick tricky fucking bastards.
> 
> How bad was it?
> 
> ?
> 
> The wound.
> 
> Well, you stabbed me.
> 
> In the main cavity where my organs are stored.
> 
> The organs I need to live.
> 
> So it wasn’t fantastic, no.

  
  
  


 

 

It’s not until after breakfast that she gets the next message. She’s strapping on boots to walk up the mountain -- Mother isn’t going with her today, as all this freedom and lax attitude is either an attempt to make up for whatever she’s done or warming her up for a week from now when she leaves.

She feels the vibration against her thigh.

 

 

 

 

> Are you alright now?
> 
> I’m in recovery.
> 
> Well, nearly recovered, give me a few more days.
> 
> I can hike up a mountain, if you’re wondering.
> 
> You didn’t lose anything?
> 
> A lot of blood.
> 
> My dignity.
> 
> Nothing else I can think of.
> 
> So you’ll be completely back to normal?
> 
> In top shape, yes.

 

 

 

 

 

Three hours and twenty two minutes. Villanelle assumes the other woman has been working herself up to something, certainly not distracted, and then sees the message confirms her suspicions.

 

 

 

 

> I’m sorry.
> 
> Are you?
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> I’m not expecting an apology, I don’t need one.
> 
> I feel like…
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> I want to apologize.
> 
> I also don’t want to apologize.
> 
> I really am sorry it happened.
> 
> I was sorry the moment it happened.
> 
> But I don’t know.
> 
> Was there a part of you that wanted to see if you could do it?

  


 

 

 

Two days later, the phone buzzes as she’s eating dinner. Mother says nothing, reading at the table as usual. She looks up, makes eye contact with Villanelle, and then goes back to her book. Villanelle lazily chews on her steak as she pulls up the text.

 

 

 

>  
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Well, now you know.
> 
> You’re someone who is capable of it.
> 
> Yes.
> 
> It’s always useful to know these things about ourselves.

  


 

 

 

 

That night, at nearly half past two:

 

 

 

>  
> 
> There are other things I’m learning about myself.
> 
> Really?
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> Well, Eve. Is there anything I can do to help?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Where are you?

 

There’s a long snake of fog in the valley, and the windows are pressed in with frothy white, until it seems the chalet sits alone in the world, abandoned to the care of its captives. Villanelle takes a photo of the grey outside, indistinguishable from a wall except for the uneven patch of darkness where the moisture fails. Sends it.

 

 

> In the clouds.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I can see that.
> 
> Am I going to get a photo of your current location?
> 
> No.
> 
> That’s fine.
> 
> I have a vivid imagination.
> 
> I’m working.
> 
> I know what that looks like.
> 
> When are you coming back?
> 
> To where?
> 
> Paris?
> 
> They’ll probably drop me somewhere else.
> 
> I made them keep me there.
> 
> They always want me further east.
> 
> I assume they’ll get their way this time.
> 
> Probably some shithole in the Balkans.
> 
> Why did you want to stay in Paris?
> 
> I like the language.
> 
> But you insist on not speaking French there.
> 
> I like speaking English in Paris.
> 
> It’s like swimming above water.
> 
> It’s easier to detect secrets when people don’t bother to hide that they’re hiding.
> 
> When I speak French, suddenly I am leagues below the surface and everything is obvious.
> 
> I find that boring.
> 
> I see.
> 
> Paris is a woman who hates you and doesn’t care if you know.
> 
> Ugly beautiful.
> 
> And the women have a particularly intense energy while also being generally aloof.
> 
> I’m sure.
> 
> I liked my apartment, too.
> 
> But someone trashed it.
> 
> Or at least they had the last time I was there.
> 
> A real shame.
> 
> Sure.
> 
>   
>    
> 

 

 

 

 

“Today is your last day.”

Villanelle looks up at the woman on the other end of the table who is currently finishing her morning espresso. “What?”

“Someone will arrive for you this afternoon. I’ve arranged your outfits in your room. When you’re finished with breakfast, you can select whichever garments you want to take with you.”

“Where am I going?”

“I’m not sure. They don’t tell me that.”

“Not back to Paris, though.”

“No, Oksana. It’s likely you won’t be going back to Paris.”

She huffs, makes a face. “That’s a pity. I have a whole case of champagne there.” She stirs more sugar into her coffee. “Did they mention anything about a new handler?”

“I was under the impression you’d shot the last one in the head.”

“Well, they’re expendable that way.”

“That’s a fast way to not be given a new handler.”

“But I need one. They’re not going to send me out into the field without some authoritative figure to give me assignments and tut-tut at my childish behavior.”

Mother fixes her with a pointed look. “Not everyone is returned to independent contracting. You’ll likely be placed in a more suitable role.”

She slurps the coffee loudly. “I’m an awful fit for desk work. Human Resources nightmare.”

And at this, Mother leans forward, hands folded in front of her. “Take whatever they give you. Use it until you find an opportunity to leave. Your only way of getting what you want is to play them for as long as you can, do you understand? At some point, there will be a way for you to be let go.”

She snorts. “They don’t let people go, Mother. They execute them in vans.”

“There will be a way,” she says. “If you’re low enough on their list, useless enough, they won’t care if you slip away. You can always contact me if you need help. I have a private line. Use one phone per call, dispose them when you’re finished.”

Villanelle examines the other woman for anything: a crack, a dent, something to give her away. She finds nothing, laughs. “Now you’re setting me up. Okay, Mother, a nice attempt at a trap. Thanks for playing. To think I actually believed that you had some murdered bitch you were still mooning over--”

At this, Mother gets to her feet, hands slamming on the table, a frustrated groan caught in her throat. This, finally, surprises Villanelle. “I am not lying to you. I am not setting you up. I understand you are allergic to trusting people, but I have done enough at this point to demonstrate my honesty. If you go off and die because you’re too set in your tendency to refuse human connection then I will not have your blood on my hands.”

She blinks. “Mother…”

“Do not get yourself killed,” Mother says. A glance, her mouth a straight line. “You have run out of second chances this time. They won’t hesitate.”

“Okay.” She stares at her, tries to read her. Crosses her arms. “Fine.”

“Go to your room.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she says. “I will. I was going to do that anyway.”

Mother isn’t looking at her anymore. Her cheeks, high and angled, are uncharacteristically pink. “And choose what you’re bringing with you. Anything you don’t want you can leave on the bed.”

“You could have given me more warning.”

“Yes,” Mother says, her eyes on the plate she is now clearing. “I could have.”

“Why didn’t you?” She tilts her head towards her. “Trying to throw me off? I’m still going to kill you before I leave.” A wave of her hand. “I’m all better, remember?”

“Of course, Oksana.” Mother’s voice is slightly smaller. “Of course.”

  


 

Noon finds her restless. She’s put her hair into two tight plaits, found a leather jacket and a pair of trousers cut for a man, boots like the ones that should still be in her closet in Paris. She leaves her room, strides to the chalet, expects Mother in the living room, then in the study, then in the small room where they have breakfast. Finds the rooms empty. Frustrated, she breaks a chair, and uses the leg to pry open the one door she has never been let behind. It makes a mess of the door, and a mess of the chair leg, but she’s in that sort of mood, really.

The stairs open to the upper floor. It is open, a bed on one end, another standalone round white fireplace, fashionably bulbous furniture. Mother is sitting in one of the chairs, her legs crossed. She looks up when Villanelle appears, starts, and then lets out a deep breath.

“Well,” Villanelle shrugs, smiling as she approaches her. She taps her wrist. “It’s about that time.”

Mother says nothing.

“I couldn’t find a gun.” A lie. She didn’t really look for one. “So I guess it’ll be my bare hands. Or, do you have some rope around here? Maybe a silk tie? Something your husband likes to use?”

She goes to the armoire on the far end of the room, pulling down a sash, then settles on a belt. On the interior of the armoire, there are many photos of a woman, somewhere in her forties, a few in younger years, smiling intimately or laughing, or standing in front of a house. Villanelle pauses, takes them in, then turns back to Mother.

“Alright, I’ve got a belt. How does that sound? It’s not very bourgeois, dying by a belt, but it’s got character, you know?”

There’s a photo on the nightstand of the same woman, her forehead pressed against the forehead of a younger Mother. Villanelle swallows, lets out a frustrated sigh, trying to ignore it.

“You know, this might be better if you put up a fight. It’s not actually very fun if you just let it happen.”

Mother looks up at her, defiantly silent.

“This is a nice room, Mother. The view is much better up here.” She goes to the wall of windows, hands on her hips. Stands with her legs apart, the belt dangling from one fist, taking in the high wall of white peaks beyond, the snake of fog obscuring anything beneath the mountains. “I’ll miss it here.”

Mother does not flinch when Villanelle places the belt around her neck. Nor does she move when Villanelle frowns, crouches down in front of her to squint into her face.

“You’re not going to say anything. You’re just done.” She sighs. “I really expected more from you, Mother.”

And Mother does something strange. She puts her hands on either side of Villanelle’s face, and she leans forward, kissing her on the forehead.

“Don’t do idiotic things,” Mother says softly. “Don’t get yourself killed. Only be stupid for this woman, and no one else, and promise to enjoy it.”

Villanelle is frozen, her mouth slightly open. The belt is hanging loosely at Mother’s neck, and Mother undoes it, folds it in her hands, passes it back to Villanelle.

Mother stands, brushing off her blouse. She goes to the armoire, leaving Villanelle crouched on the floor, the belt slowly unfolding in her palm. Mother pulls one of the photos from the interior of the door, and then closes it.

“This was my wife. Her name was Héloïse.” She smiles, and nods at Villanelle. “You can keep the belt, if you’d like. Her initials are carved on the inside, next to the buckle. The extra notch I made for her with my knife - she had a waist you could nearly fit in your hand.” Mother settles herself on the bed, legs crossed again. “They’ll be here soon. I won’t go down with you. We can say our goodbyes here.”

Villanelle shakes herself off, getting to her feet. “Mother--”

“Every child must rebel to grow,” she says. “You are not an exception. But you are exceptional, Villanelle.”

  


 

A man with a ponytail is waiting at the entrance to the chalet. It’s enough that he has a ponytail. He’s irritatingly cheerful, and his name is Gunther. She could slit his throat now, but he’s got a car, and foglights, and she’s not sure how else she’s getting off this mountain.

They park at a gondola, and he helps her pull her bags from the boot, sliding them along the grass to the gondola. A single operator nods, helps them on, and she stands beside him in the glass box, waiting for him to pause in his rambling and his strange high-pitched laugh.

The gondola begins its descent, and as they lower themselves beneath the fog there is the long extension of a lower valley, still green, dotted with more buildings.

“You are in the canton of Uri,” he says, smiling at her. “Willkommen in der Schweiz.”

“Wow, shocking, Switzerland,” she deadpans, running her tongue along her teeth. “Where are we going?”

“To your new position.”

She looks at him, trying not to make a face when his ponytail swings over his shoulder. “What is that?”

“Retirement.”

She blinks. “You’re retiring me. You couldn’t have done that up on the mountain? Just gotten it over with?”

At this, he laughs loudly, clapping a wide hand on her shoulder. She stares at him, half-disgusted by the gesture. “Of course not,” he says, bent over from the effort. “Goodness, that is too funny. You know, I should have phrased that differently. I can see the confusion.” He stands, winks. “No, no. You will be working with Retirement, the department. You’ll be retiring people.”

“I’ll be...retiring people. So I’m an executioner.”

“It’s mostly paperwork. I mean, you do shoot people in the head or poison them or whatever’s easiest, that’s true, but honestly, it’s seventy five percent filling things out and filing them.” He sighs. “It’s boring, it really is, but it’s steady work. Ironically, it has a very good pension plan.”

She’s working this over in her head, the new reality, the thought of what’s to come, the idea of pressing the barrel of a gun to the back of a blindfolded head, listening to their whimpers. Finally, she takes a breath, nods. “Where is Retirement based?”

“Prague.”

“Prague?” Villanelle rolls her eyes, groans loudly. “Come on.”

“Oh, it’s lovely. So walkable, and all the history!” He smiles. “What’s to dislike?”

“It’s full of fucking stag parties. Tourists.”

“But so much character.”

“It’s the Disneyland of Europe.”

“The Disneyland of Europe is in Paris.” He eyes her, though he’s still grinning. “Your last post was in Paris, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we usually have the weekends off. You can always go back and visit.” He pauses, thinking. “I take that back. Sometimes we have to work on a Saturday, but only if the person we have to kill drags it out on a Friday night. It’s very rare, though. We try to get everyone finished off between nine and five, Monday through Friday.”

“Fabulous.”

“You have a very nice apartment. Ted had it last, he kept it spotless. You’re just off Wenceslas Square, and there’s the most _amazing_ bar down on the street, you just tell them the kind of mood you’re in and they make you a drink based on--”

“Why doesn’t Ted need the apartment anymore?”

“Ted is dead.”

She gives him a look. “You retired Ted.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head fervently. “Oh, no. Ted retired himself. Well, he shot himself in the head. He was very depressed.”

“All those stag parties on his street, probably.”

“It was probably having to kill people, I don’t know.” He shrugs, sighing. “Or the paperwork. Honestly, the paperwork’s what you have to develop a stomach for, really.”

  


 

Her Czech has always been decent enough. The landlady shows her up to the apartment on the top floor, shows her the empty refrigerator, the heat, the electricity. Villanelle nods when she says they accommodate many young professionals like herself, and to call if any of the neighbors start running a secret Airbnb. She tells her she starts work on Monday -- it’s true, not a lie -- and thanks her, waves before she closes the door.

It’s when she’s put the sheets on the bed that her phone buzzes three times.

 

 

 

> I want a warning before you show up.
> 
> Don’t suddenly appear uninvited and scare me shitless, okay?
> 
> I can’t do that anymore.
> 
> You couldn’t do it before.
> 
> That’s true.
> 
> I can’t handle it.
> 
> Please respect that.
> 
> I didn’t intend on showing up uninvited.
> 
> Good.
> 
> Can I offer you invitations, though?

  
  


 

 

The bar in the basement does indeed have decent drinks. Midway through a glass of something inspired by “I want to fuck a woman who tried to kill me” -- the bartender had raised his eyebrows but nothing more: _whiskey, citrus, bite, smoke_ \-- the familiar vibration plays against her thigh.

 

 

 

 

> Yes.
> 
> Yes what?
> 
> You can invite me to whatever things you think you want to invite me to.
> 
> I appreciate it.
> 
> It doesn’t mean I will show up.
> 
> It doesn’t mean I want to show up.
> 
> But you can still ask.
> 
> You should meet me at the Louvre tomorrow.
> 
> I’m not in Paris.
> 
> Yes, you are.
> 
> Fine.
> 
> Meet me there at 4.
> 
> You know it’s massive, right?
> 
> In front of the crouching Aphrodite.
> 
> Which one?
> 
> Crouching Venus of Vienne.
> 
> Fine.

  
  


 

She is standing exactly where Villanelle told her to stand. Villanelle had turned this over on the flight over, though she hadn’t had much time to consider how she might feel in the moment, or how familiar it would be, and how new. Fuck. She’d spent the morning like a teenager, trying on outfits, settling on a suede bomber, the boots that betray nothing, but the wider trousers this time, the ones with the pockets she can stick her hands in and swagger her gait.

It’s crowded, as it always is, but Eve does turn when she approaches, though it’s only a glance over her shoulder, no eye contact. The dress is new. _She wore a dress._ But she’s wearing a jacket, leather. Her hair is down. Villanelle’s tongue is playing with her molars before she knows it, one canine exposed with her smile, a dog to the end. A good dog, though. An obedient dog, even, at least for her.

“You chose the vulnerable one.” Eve breathes out, mouth open, an exhale that might be a sigh, or someone filling their lungs before diving. “There’s a version here with all of her limbs intact, but you chose the one with no head or arms.”

She’s endlessly entertained by this, the assumptions, the depths the other woman has probably been wading through since the message last night. “You’re really reading into the whole thing, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Eve does sigh this time, unmistakable. “Seems like you’re setting the tone.”

“Because of...what is it you think this is about again? Her vulnerability?” She raises her eyebrows, smirks. “Oh, so in my diabolical scheme, this statue is meant to imply that you are trapped and incapacitated? Because I chose the crouching depiction of the goddess of love that can’t see or pick up things when I could have chosen one with all her bits attached.”

Eve still won’t look at her, and instead seems to be pinning her frustration on the statue itself. “I don’t know,” she says, and Villanelle watches her drumming her fingers on her own hip, her other hand going to cup her elbow, a strange way to cover herself. “You seem to do everything for a reason.”

“And my reason is to make you feel intimidated, is that it?” She shrugs. “Huh. That’s giving me a lot of credit. Honestly, the other one just isn’t as attractive. This one’s got all the body to her.” She gestures. “Look at the way her flesh folds right here, and how the nipples are soft, but just on the verge of getting hard. She’s gorgeous.”

“She is, but--”

“And she’s not vulnerable, either. We’ll never know what her face looks like, or how she was holding her hands. She gets to keep those things like secrets. She has all the power, doesn’t she?”

Eve stares at the statue in silence for a good minute, chest rising, arms unmoving. And then she laughs to herself, as though this is all as ridiculous as it technically is -- two people, one of whom tried to murder the other within the past year, staring at a prime example of the Hellenistic female form. “So you’re an art historian now.”

She shrugs. “I like art. I don’t love art.”

“You love this one.”

“Well, if she was alive, we’d probably be fucking all the time, so yes.”

“With her head and arms and feet attached.”

“Of course.” She snorts. “She needs a mouth to gasp my name.”

“Would you tell her your name? Your real name?”

“No one calls me that in bed.”

Eve’s head switches around, and now she’s staring right at Villanelle, meeting her eye and setting her mouth in a way that seems sure of itself. “Anna did, though. Wouldn’t she? That’s the name she knew you by.”

Well, then.

Villanelle examines Eve, smacked by the sudden boldness of her. This challenge in her stance, her expression, the quick narrowing of her eyes is all...new. It makes Villanelle’s blood pound in her ears even as she returns the offense. “She was the kind of woman who curses when she’s being fucked.”

No change in Eve’s expression, but she’s turned back to the statue, speaking to it now. “I see.”

“Do you and Nico have pet names for each other? Something he can whisper when he finishes? Or when he texts to remind you to pick up more detergent?” She leans in, closes the inches between her mouth and Eve’s ear. “Do you hate those names with a passion?”

Eve says nothing, but she doesn’t pull away, not until the tension in her shoulders has released. Then, she looks at Villanelle again, beautifully unreadable.

“Why am I here, Villanelle?”

“To look at art, I’d assume. Why else would anyone come to the Louvre?” She widens her eyes, a pantomime of cute. “Certainly not to satisfy their sexual curiosity with the woman they attempted to kill.”

“Then let’s look at art.”

  


 

 

A tour group is huddled in front of the Borghese Gladiator, the guide quietly pointing out the exaggerated musculature with a vague handwave. Villanelle leans into Eve again, voice lowering.

“In Sparta, they encouraged their warriors to fuck each other. Easy pain-free bonding. They figured out the shortcut and practiced it, even if they didn’t know the exact scientific reason.”

Eve raises an eyebrow. “Which is what?”

“Oxytocin. It’s released when you orgasm. Once it’s in your system, you feel an intense bond to the person who made you cum. The more you fuck, the more oxytocin is released, the deeper the connection.”

“You’re one of those,” Eve says, rolling her eyes.

“One of what?”

“So love is just chemicals, right?”

“Everything is chemicals.”

“Not everything.”

“Fine, I exaggerated. Not everything is chemicals.” The tour group mills past them as it moves on to the next object, a few accidental nudges pushing them closer together, Villanelle letting it happen. “But most things are chemicals, most people are slaves to compulsions they don’t understand, chasing one input after the next with no idea why they’re doing it.”

“Has that been your experience?”

She smiles slyly. “No, I understand everything I do. I make sense to myself.”

“I don’t.”

“What about you doesn’t make sense, Eve?”

Eve gives her a sideways glance, the hint of a look.

“Do you want a drink?”

Eve blinks. “A drink.”

“Or we can keep looking at art. All this fascinating art.”

“Are you going to keep using art as an excuse to talk about fucking?”

"Maybe." She shrugs innocently. “Make up your mind, Eve. It’s entirely up to you.”

A long pause. “I could have a drink.”

“I'm also very thirsty."

Eve snorts.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. a quite simple desperate human way

 

 

 

 

 

“Does this mean you’re back in Paris for good?”

“No.”

It’s a small wine bar, tucked into an alley, crooked and hidden, a broken arm. A place that goes unnoticed. She’s met women here before, but they never spend much time before moving on to her apartment, dragging each other out of their clothes with agreements that come in whines and muffled noises made into the hollow between necks and collarbones. There is no assumption that they need to waste time on pleasantries.

With Eve, it is all the pleasantries.

Her jacket has slid down the back of the chair, folded around her waist. Her shoulders are bare. Villanelle imagines how they would look with the impression of teeth. Eve keeps noticing where her gaze lingers, keeps catching it and redirecting it, sipping her wine too quickly. Villanelle hides nothing. The fact the other woman came at all has given her such a boldness that she can hardly contain it all.

Eve’s head tilts. “Are you allowed to tell me where you are?”

“I’m in Paris, drinking wine with you.”

“You know what I mean.”

She wipes the liquid from the corner of her mouth with her thumb, sucks it. “I don’t think I should keep involving you.” 

“It was my job to be involved.”

“It’s not your job anymore?” She pauses, studying her, certain things rising to the surface. “You’ve been fired.”

“I’m on leave,” Eve says, too quickly.

“Was that your choice?”

The other woman fixes her with a look, determined to shift the discussion away from this. “So you still work for them?”

“I’m in a new department now. New responsibilities.”

“Which are?”

“I’m at a desk, for starters. I do a lot of typing.”

“Bullshit.” Eve laughs at this, shoulders loosening. Villanelle watches her, smirks when the other woman snorts. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Oh, I know, trust me. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I wish I was driving a nail up someone’s nostril instead. But, you know, that’s most things in life.” She holds up her free hand, flexing her wrist as she clusters her fingers together, poised to enter something or someone. “I’m getting carpal tunnel. Can you believe that? That’s going to have an effect on how I fuck, isn’t it? Having to take a paracetamol just to fist a woman. I don’t like it.”

Eve swallows her wine. Villanelle watches the muscles tightening in her throat, the tendons rippling there as she takes another sip and then cocks her head slightly, jaw clenched. Villanelle smirks crookedly, tries again.

“I was going to test it out. There was a girl…” She draws it out, a long breath, her tongue lifting to twist in her mouth, visibly there between her teeth, never once breaking the gaze of Eve. Finally, almost painfully, Eve purses her lips, looks elsewhere. Villanelle’s cue to continue. “But I didn’t. I’ve been celibate since my exile.”

“Is that so rare for you?”

“I don’t think Michelangelo got anywhere only drawing a few times a year.”

Eve laughs, and it seems to get away from her. “So you’re a Renaissance Master of fucking.”

“Your words.” She shrugs, but her chest is thrumming, her hands restless again. She drains more of the wine into her glass. “Traditionally, I try not to go more than a few days without one physical act or the other. I am easily frustrated.”

“So now you’ve gone months.”

“So I have. And how about you, Eve?”

“Really?” The other woman’s expression shifts, her eyes roll. “What do  _ you _ think?”

“I don’t think. I try not to assume anything about anyone else’s sex life.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Why put words in your mouth? Anyway, you don’t need to tell me. You make it obvious.”

Eve sets down her wine. “Tell me more about work.”

“I told you I wouldn’t involve you anymore.”

“Then tell me where you’re living. It’s not Paris anymore, at least not that apartment.”

“It’s sweet that you’ve noticed.”

“You already knew that I know.”

“It’s not going to smell like stale alcohol when I see it again, is it?”

“You’re going to see it again?”

“If I get invited there, sure. Only if it’s been cleaned though. I know how difficult it is to get blood out of that floor.” 

Eve tips the wine bottle up again and into her glass - a few drops finishes it. She looks at Villanelle, meets her eye with a meaning previously unseen, and sighs. “We’re getting another one, aren’t we?”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

“So you don’t kill people anymore?”

“I do. It’s just more...” She thinks of the man with the bag over his head, Piotr crouching to give him the injection that would stop his heart and imitate an overdose. Navigating cobblestones in her new Balenciaga trainers to drop him, crumpled and freshly dead and stuck with someone else’s identification, in an alley well-known for such conduct, complaining loudly until Piotr agreed to buy them both trdelník, which she ate, her fingers covered in cinnamon and sugar, a half-spiral hanging out the side of her mouth as a dead man sat unnoticed down the alley behind them. 

Eve is watching her think. It’s a strange sensation, being so observed. “More what?”

Villanelle shrugs. This new wine is heavier on the tongue, and she smacks her mouth. “Sterile. The fun’s been taken out of it.”

Eve’s eyes roll easier now that they’re on this next bottle. “ _ Fun _ .”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

She looks her over, smirking. “I think you do.”

Eve twists her body as if to cover herself, as if she has been exposed. Hardly, Villanelle thinks, but she respects her enough to hold only her gaze, showing her canines in her smile. 

“I do kill, but it’s not marks like before.” She clarifies, seeing the shift in the other woman. “I’m a company man. I kill people in the company. We call it retirement. You’ve probably heard of it in one spy novel or another.”

“That sounds inefficient.”

“It’s remarkably efficient, actually. So efficient that it’s dull. That’s what all the deskwork is for. You pop someone off in a way that looks natural and then you spend two weeks erasing every trace of them from international documentation.” She sighs, pretends not to study Eve’s reactions. “I’m involving you now, you see.”

Eve takes a long, long swig of wine. Then, for the first time yet, she leans forward, closes the gap between them. “Here’s what I don’t understand,” she says, and Villanelle holds her breath. “Why are you putting up with this?”

Oh, a universe of meanings there. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“The job. This sounds like your idea of hell. Why are you cooperating? The Villanelle I thought I understood would be throwing a tantrum, making things difficult, disobeying. But you tell me you’re sitting at a desk.”

She pauses, holding the answer on her tongue. “I had a piece of advice from someone recently. Cooperation appears to be the best option.”

“Best option for what?”

“Moving forward.”

Eve leans back, hands in her lap. Shakes her head, eyes narrowed, tongue roaming her mouth in what is clearly frustration. Frustration is something Villanelle can work with, though. “What am I doing?”

Villanelle cocks her head. “What _ are  _ you doing, Eve?”

“Why do I even try to have an honest conversation with you?”

“When did the conversation become dishonest?”

“A desk job. Paperwork. You’re fucking with me, it’s obvious. After all this time, you’re still fucking with me.”

“I told you it sounds unbelievable, but--”

“God, I don’t even care if you’re lying to me or not.” Eve’s hand goes to her left temple, massaging it. Her eyes close. Villanelle watches her, feeling her own pulse speed up. Eve’s laughing to herself now. “I really don’t. You could say anything, I’m still going to sit here.”

“Why is that, Eve?”

Eve’s eyes fly open. She’s back at the wine again. Villanelle follows suit, only to be polite, well-aware they’re both solidly tipsy. “You know why.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, Oksana. You do.”

She sucks air through her teeth. “Oh, we’re using  _ that _ name now.”

“It’s your real name. It’s something about you I know isn’t fabricated.”

“I use a different name than my birth name. I’m not going to sit here and tell you all about my hobbies and my family and what I want to be when I grow up, but neither were you. Is that what makes me fabricated?” She leans forward. “Who are  _ you _ , Eve? You’re not your job anymore. You’re not a doting wife. You’re living in the apartment of a killer, drinking wine with a killer, and planning on doing what? Whose life are you living right now?”

And Eve shocks her by answering immediately: “You tell me.”

“That’s not for me to know. You’ve already had your metaphorical un-becoming. So have I. Now we get to see how our selves are remade.”

Eve stares at her for a long time, and there’s no veil anymore over the intensity of her gaze, her expressions are bared and it’s clear as day where the lines can be traced, from fear to want to need to disbelief. Finally, she snorts, shakes her head. “Jesus, what are you, a poet now?”

“It’s the wine.”

“You can’t possibly want another bottle.”

“We’re only halfway through this one.”

“I know, but I…” Her hand lands on the table. “I don’t know what comes next.”

“Are you stalling, Eve? I don’t mind drawing this out. It’s pleasant.” Villanelle gives her a look. “I’m not due to leave Paris until tomorrow evening. I have all kinds of time.”

“I don’t want to drink too much. I want to be...mostly sober for…”

God, she could grin, but she sucks it down, even if every inch of her is vibrating. “For what, Eve?”

“Shit.” Eve sucks on the edge of her lip. “I’ve always been awful at this.”

“At what?”

“This whole…” Eve looks away. “Fuck it,” she whispers, seemingly to herself.

“The night is young. What do you Americans say?” She smirks when she remembers. “You call the shots.” Villanelle drops her hand near Eve’s, one finger stroking the stem of her glass, the back of her hand pressed into Eve’s palm. Eve closes her hand. She looks at Villanelle, and the expression there is brand new. Shockingly new. Villanelle forgets how to breathe new.

“Are you expecting me to beg for it?”

Perfect. “Yes,” she says. “Is that too much to assume?”

“No, it isn’t,” Eve says. “It isn’t, no. It’s...accurate. But it’s funny.”

“How?”

“I was picturing the opposite. All this time I wanted to see something desperate in you for once. You as the seeking one. Maybe on your knees, crawling, asking for permission to fuck me.”

Her mouth is suddenly dry. She lets out a short, quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Why is that?”

“It’d make it easier. All this absolute mind-fucking misery I’ve been going through. All this torture while my fucking life falls apart. I just wanted you to come here and make it simple. Just take the whole thing out of my hands.” Her gaze falls. “I don’t want to be responsible for myself anymore.”

“That’s quite a statement, Eve.”

Eve’s voice has lowered to a whisper, but there’s so much heat in it that she can nearly see it spark. “Can you do that? Can you just...Christ, I don’t even know what it would take. I just want to be fucking erased. Obliterated. All of it. Does that make sense?”

She puts her mouth to Eve’s ear. “Are you giving your explicit consent to this?”

“Yes, but,” and Eve balls the front of Villanelle’s shirt in her hand, and Villanelle can feel that she’s shaking slightly. “Not in the murder sense. Let me make that very clear. Don’t kill me.” Her voice shrinks. “Please.”

“Obviously.” She wants to comfort her for some reason. Places her hands on her, presses nearer so she can look at her up close. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. But I said the same thing last time, and you stabbed me, so let me make a similar request.”

“Yes.”

“I will do whatever you ask. Fuck you into another existence if you need, which, you do. Clearly.” She sees Eve’s bottom lip tremble at this. “But you can’t hurt me either. Unless I ask. I can’t give you what you need if I’m dead. And I think I’m the  _ only _ one who can give you what you need. It’s really in your best interests that you not mortally wound me again.”

“I would agree with that.”

“Excellent.” Villanelle sits back in her chair, legs stretched out, nearly purring like a cat. “It’s a seven minute walk to my old apartment. Or is it your new apartment now? I hope it’s still recognizable. You haven’t reupholstered everything, have you?”

Something seems to occur to Eve. “That’s why you picked this place.”

“It’s private. No one cares or believes what I have to say. But yes,” she says, grinning. “It makes this part easier.”

A smirk that could almost be flirtatious. “You assumed a lot.”

“I stopped assuming when I saw you standing in front of that statue. Assumptions are for the unknown. Everything was very clear at that point.”

Eve rolls her eyes, getting to her feet. “You’re so fucking smug.” 

“Common misconception. I’m confident in a disorderly manner. But,” and her voice lowers conspiratorially. “I secretly love to be humbled.”

A searching look in a response. Oh, she’ll understand.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

The light switch hasn’t worked for a year, and Eve hasn’t had it fixed yet, so the first light to come on in the apartment is the standing lamp in the kitchen. Eve’s moved it there - it used to be next to the bed. All the better; she’s stubbed her toe on it during more than one encounter.

She allows herself to stop once she’s entered the apartment, to remain alone in the kitchen while Eve disappears elsewhere. She doesn’t care much for the type of introspection she knows is necessary at this moment. In fact, she fucking hates it. She finds it irritating, cloying, fucking stupid, but her mind churns away regardless, forcing her to consider everything.

She has sought this for a very long time now, though in her sideways, toying way. Villanelle was one of the firmest believers that the fun was all in the chase. What she captured, especially what she pinned down in this room, rooting through these sheets, cuffing to certain bedposts, was captured precisely because of how little meaning it held for her. Anna she’d drawn out until they couldn’t possibly contain it anymore, and Anna had been the one pursuing her, really, pulling the wayward threads of that particular power dynamic, identifying each wound a young and eager Oksana carried and taking the time to lick them. And fuck, hadn’t she wanted to open more and more incisions just to keep her attention? Bleed herself dry for Anna’s interests? They’d had to tear her away from it.

Eve has chased her. Eve has found her many times, and Villanelle has let herself be found, and then carefully yanked it all away before anyone got any ideas. This was a prize she previously had no intention of taking, but here she is, offering herself to her, the prey turning up its belly at the site of fangs. 

Except she’s not a prize. Because Villanelle fucking  _ cares,  _ and it’s a stronger urge than all the rest. It should be impossible for her to care, and it ought to be for her own sanity, both of their sanities, but now she remembers what Mother had said, shakes her head, takes a deep breath.

Fuck.

She walks into the other room. Eve’s standing next to the bed, one arm cradling her elbow. 

“I changed some things,” she’s saying, her voice shaky. 

“It’s fine,” Villanelle says.

“We can change it back if you like.”

“It’s fine,” she repeats.

“I don’t know, now that I’m seeing it, I don’t know if they were the right design choices.”

“It really is fine,” she says.

“I’m sorry, it was probably presumptuous of me to--”

Villanelle takes her chin in her hand. She presses their foreheads together. “Eve,” she whispers. “Stop. It’s fine. Okay? It’s fine. I’m going to go into the other room now, and I’m going to hang up this jacket because I don’t want to get anything on it. Don’t do anything rash. I will be right back.”

She really does love this jacket, and she knows damn well she cannot for the life of her get cum out of suede, tapestry, nearly any of her favorite materials. She's learned this the very hard way in the past. When she returns to the bedroom, Villanelle drops to both knees, and Eve lets out a gasp.

“What are you doing?”

Her palms smack onto the floor as she pitches forward. She grins as she crawls, slowly, painfully slowly, towards the woman standing next to the bed. “What you wanted,” she says. “Me on my knees, crawling to you.”

Eve’s hand reaches blindly behind her as she sits down on the bed, her breathing hard enough to be audible. When Villanelle comes to her lap, she looks up, eyes narrowed. “Begging you for permission.”

A whisper: “Fuck.”

She takes a moment to sit back on her haunches, retying the bun on the back of her head. Fortification. But a hand is grabbing the strands before she can do much with it, yanking her up and onto her, and she’s falling forward with Eve’s fist tight in her hair, both of them groaning. Their faces are touching, but not their mouths. Eve’s eyes are closed. Villanelle takes a ragged breath, shocked at herself for what she’s about to say. “I know what we discussed, but I’m aware it’s your first time, and I can be more  _ tender _ , if that’s what you--”

“No,” Eve says, head shaking, fist pulling tighter. “Fuck that. No. Fucking destroy me.” Her eyes open. “Please.”

She grits her teeth, groaning, and begins yanking up Eve’s dress, rough enough to tear it. She’s about to feel her, and her thighs are red hot under her hands, and she knows, she knows that when she finds her, she’ll be absolutely soaking and so fucking -- “ _ Дерьмо́ _ .”

Eve grabs her face, panting, struggling to get out her words with this new touch, intensified as Villanelle presses her hand flat against her, holds her there. “Did you just speak Russian?”

Villanelle makes a face. “You know I’m Russian.”

“But you don’t speak Russian. You never speak Russian.”

“I’ve never palmed your cunt before either, so it’s an occasion.”

“I don’t mind if you...if you do that. Speak Russian all you fucking want.”

“Good,” she hisses, bending her fingers, feeling the writhing of limbs beneath her. “Because I can’t help it.”

 

 

 


	5. all gone

 

 

 

 

“Did you hear that?” Eve’s head tilts up with a gasp, this one not quite prompted by what’s happening to her. Villanelle pushes her back down, her forearm pressed carefully against Eve’s throat. 

“No,” she says, and curls her finger to provoke a shudder, hoping that is the end of it.

A muffled choking moan, and Eve’s head is coming up again, forehead nearly colliding with Villanelle’s as she raises herself up on her elbows to look around her. “I’m serious,” she just barely gets out, a pathetic pair of words staccatoed by deep grunts. “I heard something, did you--”

“No,” Villanelle repeats, removing her forearm so she can grab Eve by the hair --  _ that _ hair -- and pull her back to her attention. “Look, I haven’t even gotten started yet. This is me at one, maybe two percent capabilities. I intend on getting to at least ninety tonight, but I can’t do that if we don’t continue.”

“I know,” Eve says, and her eyes are rolling back into her head again, chin tilting. “Fucking hell, I know.”

Through gritted teeth: “Good, then ignore the neighbor’s cat and--”

Noisily and quite rudely, there is the loud sound of glass breaking from the kitchen. She pulls out with a squeal from Eve, head swiveling. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Oh my god.” Eve sits up, a hand in her hair, scooting backwards on the bed. “Shit.”

Villanelle’s arm is across her, positioning herself between the other woman and the kitchen. “Stay here.”

“So I was right.” Eve’s straightening herself, swinging a leg off the bed, and Villanelle glares at her in the dark.

“Do  _ not _ \--” But Eve continues to move, prompting Villanelle to press a very wet finger to the other woman’s lips. “I mean it. Do not get any ideas. Ideas will get you killed. I’d prefer if you aren’t killed.”

Eve pulls down her dress, still whispering. “What are you going to do?”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” A soft shuffle from the other room, someone trying to be quiet as they move across the floor. “I’m going to go take care of it.”

It seems to dawn on Eve just what that entails. “Fuck.”

“Is there still a gun under the bed?”

Eve shakes her head.

“Under the lamp?”

Another headshake.

She sighs, wiping her mouth with an already sticky wrist. “Fine.” She holds out her palm, pruned fingers spread. She wiggles them expectantly. “Hand me the lamp.”

“Lampshade on or off?"

“I’m going to bludgeon someone to death with it, Eve.”

Eve blinks. “...so off, then. Got it.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

The kitchen appears empty but for the shattered glass beneath the window, which is just ridiculous. Her front door has always been stupidly easy to jimmy open and the balcony is right there, why would this idiot go to the trouble of breaking a fucking window just to--

Something slams into her hard from the side, and a moron in a balaclava comes into view as she swings around to grab their head. She smashes them in the face with the lamp, and hears the sound they make on its impact, the low growl of a man, but he doesn’t go down, his hands still tight around her neck. It’s going to be tough, she can feel that now. Shame.

She’s good at this, this act of staying alive when someone’s attempting to render her otherwise, and it’s been a while since there’s been any real struggle to her work, any  _ stakes _ . God, how long has she wanted to get her teeth sharp again, rather than the bored flicking of the syringe, the sterile plunge of a needle, the aching calves from dragging unconscious bodies into alleys and fields? But here she is, back in a red hot match to kill or be killed, and there’s some part of her wishing she could toss him out the window and go back to rest her head in Eve’s lap, watch something terrible on the television. She fights his attempt to strangle her and all she can think about is how very inconvenient this all is, how irritating, how fucking pointless the entire wank of a fight is when she has much better things to do with her evening.

Mother would laugh at this, were they having this conversation. You’re a different creature these days, she’d say. Look at you, less a weapon than a romantic wastrel. And Mother would be right.

Eve’s there now, having grabbed one of the lighter metal chairs from the table and hoisted it above her head. Villanelle doesn’t have time to roll her eyes, though she would if she was not currently in the throes of this difficult dance. 

“What did I say about--”

But Eve brings the chair down with a crack on the back of the man, sending them both off-balance. He grunts again, probably high on whatever is keeping him conscious and freakishly strong, and still doesn’t go under, though his grip loosens enough for Villanelle to get her arms out and snatch the balaclava off him. She doesn’t recognize the red face beneath, a mess of steroidal bulge and beady little eyes, but it’s not exactly the best time to go through her mental catalogue of colleagues.

“Fuck,” Eve says, just as Villanelle uses the largest shard of the lamp to slice off the top of his ear. It flies across the kitchen, landing somewhere near Eve’s foot. There’s a wet noise as Eve turns to vomit a very wine-hued splash into the sink, then groans.

“Just stay over there,” Villanelle instructs, grunting as she smashes his face with what’s left of the lamp, then her elbow, then uses the wall to leverage herself enough to knock him down, though he’s still got her in a tight grip. She feels something sharp in her side, twists enough to get away from it, but knows he’s nicked her along the ribs. Fucker. She pries a utility knife from his fingers, but he drops it, and it’s kicked somewhere under the heater. The absolute fucking fucker.

“What can I do?” Eve’s saying, rummaging in the silverware drawer until she pulls out a carving knife.

Villanelle wrestles him onto the floor, pinning him with her knees and thighs. She holds out an expectant hand to Eve. “Throw me the knife.”

Eve’s jaw drops. “I can’t just throw this knife.”

“Of course you can,” she says, and flicks her fingers a few times. “Toss it here.”

“What if I hit you?”

“Then you’re two for two. Don’t worry, I’ll catch it.” 

“I can’t throw the fucking knife!”

She bites down her exasperation. “ _ Okay, _ then set it on the ground and kick it over.” 

“If I do that, then I’ll kick it into his head.”

“Do you take anything for anxiety? You appear to have some irrational anxiety.”

“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll do it. I can do it.” Eve kneels, sets the knife down, and gingerly shoves it towards where the two are struggling on the floor. It stops an inch too far for Villanelle to reach. She groans.

“ _ Really _ ?”

“I’m sorry!” Eve’s arm goes back into the drawer, fishing around until she’s pulled out a steak knife. “Will this work?”

“Anything that isn’t a spatula will work. I need it now.”

Eve tosses it this time, and it lands just to the right of Villanelle’s leg. She snatches it up and sets it at the man’s jugular. “Who sent you?”

He spits at her, landing just below her left eye.

“Oh, that’s not a good idea.”

She shoves the man’s jaw shut with her knee, and there’s a wet grunt as blood spills out either side of his mouth, his tongue bitten. There’s a muffled moan, and then she yanks down on his bottom jaw, opening it up.

“Let’s try this again. Who sent you? The Twelve?”

“MI6?”

Villanelle looks over at Eve, who is now crouched on the kitchen floor a few feet away, having offered up that interesting suggestion.

Still no response from the man. It’s a steak knife, but it’s effective enough at sawing clumsily through the rest of his ear. He howls through this process, tossing his head to throw her off, but she digs a thumb into his eye to keep him still. Eve’s watching in silence from the other side of the kitchen, her mouth twisted in slight disgust, but she does not look away or vomit this time.

“Last chance, so listen with the ear you still have:  _ Why are you here? _ ”

He spits a pinkish gob at her cheek. A thick accent, Low German if she had to guess: “I say nothing.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” 

Eve’s already shaking her head, keen to what’s about to happen. “Don’t kill him. We could just--”

Villanelle opens his mouth, sticks the blade past his bleeding tongue, aims up, and pounds the whole thing through the back of his head with one fist on the handle and the other applied like a hammer.

A gasp from the other living person in the room. “Seriously?”

“What?” Villanelle gets to her feet, hand clamped over the wound on her side. She plants a foot on the man’s chest as he twitches, a few noisy sputters sending red spittle and other human matter onto Villanelle’s bare toes. She wipes them against his shirt, frowning. “He wasn’t going to talk. Trust me, you can tell when they’ve given up.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not quite.” Villanelle bends over to look him in the eye, which follows her without focusing, the eyelid drooping. It takes some effort to grab the knife by the handle and dislodge it, but she manages to finally pull it out with a grunt. The situation gets much wetter and more gurgled, and his hands make empty grasps at the air, though they do not leave his side. “Another minute or two.”

Eve’s still frowning, unable to take her eyes from the dying man. “Was that really the best way to do it?”

Villanelle snorts. “You got rid of my guns.”

“I moved them.” Eve points out the window. “They’re in a storage facility.”

“If they’re out of reach, they are the same amount of useful.” She taps her brow, smirking. “The more you know.”

“How would I have known we needed to fend off a murderer tonight?”

“Assassin. Murderer is when you’re not paid. I’m sure he was being compensated.” The man gives a last drowned choke, twitches, and then stills. Villanelle steps over him and wipes her hand with a tea towel. “Anyway, you have to be prepared in this job.”

Eve’s eyes continue to be wide, huge, slightly unbelieving. “You said you have a desk job.”

“I do, but you know how it is.” She nods at the situation now bleeding out on the floor. “Sometimes work follows you home.”

“So this is work-related.”

“The fuck if I know.” She turns to Eve, wipes a spot of vomit from the other woman’s bottom lip. “Shall we continue where we left off? Before we were so rudely interrupted.”

And that same lip briefly quivers. “I...yeah, I can’t do that with him in here.”

“We could close the door.”

“Right, but I’ll still know.” 

Villanelle snorts, shaking her head. “I’m kidding.” She hears her voice softening, though she isn’t sure why, and she isn’t doing it on purpose. It’s unnerving, the ways she unravels for this woman without her own consent. “I would not break your trust. I said we wouldn’t do anything if you’re uncomfortable. I will always hold to that.”

“That’s very enlightened for a psychopath.” Her eyes fall to the dark spot on Villanelle’s side. “Shit, you’re hurt.” 

“Shallow cut.”

“Not that shallow.” Eve moves towards her, hand buried in her hair. Villanelle’s picking up on this gesture as a sign of Eve’s inner anxiety. Then, the other woman freezes, her face twisting into a grimace. “Oh god.”

“What?”

“I think I just stepped on his ear.”

Villanelle shrugs, a sweep of her arm. “I mean, there’s pieces of it all over here. It’s going to happen.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

Villanelle squats, giving the corpse her professional appraisal, and sighs. “Do you know how to dispose of a body, Eve?”

Eve audibly swallows, her mouth smacking as if very dry. “No. I mean, in theory, maybe. But not at this minute.”

Villanelle slaps her thighs and stands, smiles. “Well, you’ll learn tonight. All sorts of firsts for you, huh? Lesbianism and corpse disposal.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Big night.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

There is a burner phone in his pocket, no identification, no money. This means wherever he was based for the evening, it’s nearby. That, or he had an accomplice to drive him across the city. It appears he used the utility knife to enter the apartment, but he is not armed with a gun. Instead she finds a series of capped syringes tucked into the back of his pants - she has no idea what they contain, but she assumes they were meant to make her evening quite un-fun. It’s an interesting discovery, and until she can analyze what’s in them, she’s not actually sure he came here with the intent to  _ kill _ . Somehow that’s more troubling than the usual reasoning.

“Give me the phone,” Eve says, and Villanelle looks up from where she’s been searching the body, eyebrow raised. There is a rudimentary patch-up on the wound on her ribs, a bandage Eve carefully applied - she will probably need stitches, but certain things are more pressing. 

“Why?”

“I’m going to call the police.” At Villanelle’s expression, she rolls her eyes. “I’m going to look at his phone for information, I am obviously not calling the police. You know I did technically collect intel as a profession, right?”

Villanelle does not release the phone from her grip yet. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

“Earlier, I told you that I was trying to keep you out of this. I don’t want to involve you, remember?”

“I think I’m technically an accomplice now. I gave you the knife.”

“I asked for the knife.”

“If I’m honest, if you hadn’t told me to stay out of it, I would have used it myself. Or whatever it would have taken to finish him.”

Villanelle looks at her, closes her fingers over Eve’s with the phone now sealed in the other woman’s fist. “Yeah?”

Eve appears to be blushing, though it could be the smear of blood and spew. “Well, he was going to kill you.”

“You would have killed someone for me?”

“I mean, when you put it that way--” But Eve’s interrupted by Villanelle kissing her hard, a hand to the back of her neck with all the force of a choke, and Villanelle can taste the sourness of wine and vomit and the salt of tears Eve thought she was subtly hiding earlier, and it tastes perfect. She feels something like elation just to have it on her tongue, too. When she pulls away, Eve looks stunned.

“Here,” Villanelle says, letting her have the phone. “It’s yours.”

“Thank you.” She smiles for the first time since Villanelle was inside her. “I’ll find a charger so I can start looking through it now.”

“Ah,” Villanelle sighs. “Well.” She nods at the body, frowns suggestively. “A small task ahead of us first.”

Eve’s face falls. “Oh god.”

“Just help me drag him into the bathtub. I can do the rest.”

“Do you, uh...are there chemicals or something we need to get? A tarp?”

She shrugs. “Oh, everything’s under my sink. I’m always stocked up on those particular supplies.”

“How many times have you chopped up a corpse in your bathtub?”

She pretends to balk at the accusation. “I’m not a monster, Eve.” A smirk. “Only twice. This will be three, but third time’s the charm, I believe they say in your language. Also, it’s not really chopping. I have better ways.”

Eve blinks. “There are so many things about your life that fascinate me, but this...I would like to stay in the dark about this one process, okay? I’ve already thrown up twice tonight.”

“Do you have headphones?”

“I think so.”

She pats her arm, an encouraging smile. “Put on headphones. First though, let’s get him to somewhere more comfortable, yeah?”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Two hours and forty two minutes later, there is a knock on the bathroom door. Villanelle lifts her goggles, flicks some gristle from her gloves, and opens the door a crack. Eve’s eye is apparent on the other side, narrowed as if in concern.

“Hi,” she says. “How’s it going?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“I mean, don’t tell me what you’re actually doing. I’m just making sure everything is okay.”

“Oh, sure. Fine.” She glances over her shoulder at a spray of blood on the mirror. “Fairly straightforward this time.”

“Do you want anything? Like a glass of water?” She pauses. “Are you hungry?”

“Now you mention it, pizza sounds really good, doesn’t it?”

“I can order pizza.”

“One with lots of…” She sees that there’s a bit of muscle tissue on her wrist. “Meat.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

The sky over Paris is grey with this dawn, and the first white blink of sun finds them sitting on the kitchen floor, recently scrubbed and still smelling strongly of bleach. Villanelle picks up the last piece from the open pizza box, swings it in the air between them.

“Do you want to split it?”

Eve is sprawled against the cupboard, legs stretched out in front of her. There is a dark stain on the side of her dress, which could be any number of things. “Why am I not a complete mess right now?”

“You do look a complete mess.” She shrugs, taking a bite from the pizza’s tail. “I mean, you’re still beautiful, but, you know. You could use a shower.”

“I should be traumatized right now.”

“Should you?”

“I mean, yeah. Right?” Eve looks at her, something slightly wild in her eyes. “Shouldn’t I? A normal person would be sobbing on the floor right now, or checking themselves into a facility. I saw a man die from having a steak knife shoved into his brain. I am very aware that you later chopped that same man up in the bathtub.”

“Not chopped, just--”

“I am not reacting to this in a normal way.”

“Maybe it’s not normal, but it’s healthy.”

Eve snorts. “What’s healthy about this?”

“You are in my world now. It is a very brutal place, this world I live and work in. If you are going to survive it, you are going to need to react to things exactly as you are right now.” She gives her a look. “Actually, you’ve taken to it naturally. Didn’t even need an adjustment period.”

“That’s not true.”

“Almost like you were meant for it. Or maybe this was your world, too, all along.”

“I’m not like you.”

“Okay,” she says, shrugging. She picks at the dried blood under her fingernail. “You are not like me, Eve.”

“Fuck,” and Eve’s head drops into her open palms, her face covered as it shakes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean it like that.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I am not like you. You are not like me. Whatever.”

“I’m just really exhausted. I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted in my life.”

“Hey,” Villanelle reaches for the other woman’s wrist, tugs it gently. “Let’s take a nap.”

“I…” But Eve stands when Villanelle stands, and follows her into the bedroom, and collapses next to her on top of the covers, eyes immediately shutting when she hits the pillow. “God, this feels amazing.”

“I am not going to stab you.”

Eve’s eyes fly open. “What?”

“Last time one of us did this whole ‘oh, I am so tired, let’s take a nap, aren’t you so tired’ shit, you stabbed me.” She leans forward, kisses Eve on the forehead. “I am not going to do that, though. Are you?”

“No,” Eve says. Her fingers circle Villanelle’s wrist. “I won’t stab you. All the knives are soaking in the sink anyway.”

“Thank you for being too lazy to get up and get one.”

“You’re welcome.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Eve is sleeping again when Villanelle returns to the apartment in the mid-afternoon, though she’s wearing a bathrobe instead of her dress, and there is an open bag of crisps next to her, her hand still buried inside it. Villanelle smirks at the image, sitting down next to her.

“Hey,” a groggy head lifts, Eve’s eyes narrowing at the bright room. “Where’d you go?”

“I had to drop something in the Seine.”

Eve is wide awake at this, propping herself up on an elbow. She shakes her other hand out of the bag. “Wait, really? That’s where you put him?”

“Well, some of him. Some of him is elsewhere. None of him is here anymore, though.” She pauses. “Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s a tiny bit of him in a jar under the sink, but it’s nothing too offensive. I need to get someone to run his DNA.”

Eve pulls the burner phone from the pocket of her bathrobe. “I went through the whole thing.”

She yawns. “Anything interesting?”

“Two text messages. Nothing else. I found out that they were in Frisian.”

Villanelle’s mouth smacks in disappointment. “Really? That’s a dying language. I feel a bit bad that we killed one of its native speakers. God, we’re just contributing to the problem.”

“The first message was just ‘here’.”

Villanelle makes a face. “Very to the point.”

“The second referred to the target. It took me forever to find the right translation of the word, because I thought I had to be wrong.”

She leans in, wrapping her arms around Eve’s waist. Her face presses into her side, a mouthful of terrycloth. “You’re so diligent. It’s very sexy.”

“Blackbird. They called the target Blackbird.”

“Huh. That’s a new one. But I do usually get animals.”

“You’re not Blackbird.”

She snorts. “Of course I am.”

“Do you see where I’m going with this?” Eve sits up, points to her own chest. “Me. I’m the target.”

“What? Because of the code name?”

A hand is pulling on her locks as if a demonstration is necessary. “I have black hair. You do not.”

Villanelle releases her grip, trying not to laugh in her face. But really, it’s quite laughable. “I mean, they could have called the target Tree or Shit or RedOrangeBlue. None of those really mean things. I’ve been everything from Monkey to Ladder. Figure that one out. I always was offended by Ladder, I don’t know why. Monkey? Okay, I’m cheeky, I’m a bit of an asshole. But what’s a fucking Ladder? I hate it. I don’t know why, but I hate it.”

“But Blackbird is so specific, it just feels like they’re referring to me.”

She shrugs again, crossing her legs. “I wouldn’t overthink it.”

Eve seems frustrated by this, her mouth forming a shape Villanelle has never seen before, tongue searching her teeth. “Okay, but let’s just say for a second that I am the target.”

“Then we’re fucked, because I can’t stick around to protect you. I have to go to work, I have to go back to…” She stops herself.

Eve catches her. “To where?”

“To a city. Where I work.”

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“I’m not involving you.”

An exasperated groan. Eve’s hands fly into the air. “Not involving me? What in the world did we do for the past twenty-four hours, Oksana?”

An old emotion flares in her chest. Something swings and bolts shut. “I never said you could use that name.”

A bit more intent with this question. “Did Anna need to ask for permission?”

“Yes,” she lies, pushes off from the bed, scans the room. She has a strong instinct to get as far from this bedroom as possible, and potentially harm whoever tries to follow her. “They were here for me. You’ve been a sitting duck with the habits of an idiot for months. They could have taken you out at any time without an issue, but they waited for me to show up to strike. I’m the target. Don’t take your lack of importance personally.”

But Eve doesn’t seem to be listening, shaking her head as she searches under the bed for her suitcase. “I can’t stay here.”

Villanelle watches her begin to throw things into her bag, tearing things down from the wardrobe. “So go back to London. Fall into Nico’s arms, tell him you need his strength. Have a romantic reunion in the face of this great threat.”

Eve’s head shoots up. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Oh, I won’t have to. I have a contact list of impressionable young internationals to do that for me. Millenials love casual sex with mental illness on the table.”

The other woman rolls her eyes. “You don’t like women your own age.”

“You don’t like Nico.”

Eve appears to be observing neither rhyme nor reason in throwing things into the suitcase. “You’re right. I love him.”

She snorts. “So much that you now only communicate by email?”

A pause. “What do you mean?”

Oh, she may have overplayed her hand with that one. “I have never been in love, but I assume it means you don’t accept other people’s fists up your hole.”

Eve spins, holding up a single digit in Villanelle’s face. “One finger.  _ One. _ ”

“You were begging very vocally for the whole fist. We both know that’s where it was heading.”

“You were in love with Anna.”

Yes, that was entirely too sharp. Something is there. “Why do you keep bringing her up?”

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t matter.”

“But you loved her.”

She throws up her hands, smiling the smile that is not happy, is not healthy, is not normal. “Not anymore, as she’s dead.”

“You killed her.”

“She killed herself.”

“Because you loved her.”

At this point, something would happen. Villanelle would take Eve by the throat, pin her to the wall, perhaps, or the back of the door, and hold her very tightly until the color drains, until her grip on her wrist loosens, and the fight goes out from her, and finally, she collapses, lifeless on the floor, as expected. Or perhaps she would go to the sink and pull from the soapy mess a particularly sharp knife, and return to drive it straight into Eve’s middle, somewhere not too far from Villanelle’s matching scar, and plunge it a number of times until she felt satisfied or too tired to continue.

But of course, those things don’t happen. Villanelle feels such an inner sense of horror at the idea of harming Eve, particularly in a way that is non-consensually violent (she still has plenty of room for consensual sexual...physical acts), and it disgusts her, and it thrills her, and it drives her right out of the room, then out of the apartment, and then out onto the street, where she walks for an hour, and returns only when she is sure Eve will be long gone.

Which she is, at approximately four in the afternoon. And Villanelle stands in the empty apartment, and remembers she needs to bleach the bathroom.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

“Hello?”

Villanelle smirks at the voice. She can’t help it. “Hello, Mother.”

“Oksana. I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

“I’m a working girl now. I don’t have much time to call home and inquire about the family.”

“I was under the impression you had your weekends off. I was hoping you were using them for a bit of fun.”

“Well, it’s funny you should mention that.” She pours the rest of the champagne into her glass. “I’m actually in Paris.”

“You have a soft spot for that city.”

“I saw Eve.”

“And how was that?”

She sucks the air through her teeth, watches a cigarette tumble down through the air outside her window. Someone must have dropped it from the higher floors. “Eventful.”

“You don’t sound very happy. Did something happen?”

“We, uh...it didn’t end well.”

“Of course, Oksana. You’ve had a row with your girlfriend and now you’re calling me because you don’t know what to do.”

“She isn’t my girlfriend, Mother.”

“Your lover, then.”

“I hate that word. Literally use anything but that word.”

“You know that a sudden onset of intimacy like this would likely be too intense for you. You’d dip your toe in, get terrified, and push her as far away as possible.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“Where is she now?”

“Headed back to her husband, I assume. Or worse, back to her empty house in London to stew and be obstinate.”

“You said something awful, didn’t you?”

“Me? She did, too! She kept bringing up Anna, like she’s fixated on her, she’s jealous or something, she’s just...she was just as bad, that’s all.”

“Of course, Oksana.”

“Look, I’m not...this isn’t why I’m calling. I need your help.”  

“Just ask.”

“I need you to check on something for me. I need some people who can run DNA, and someone who can analyze chemicals. All my contacts were within the organization.”

“Eve could provide those. Her colleagues would be able to--”

“I’m not involving Eve.”

“Because you had a fight and drove her out?”

“Because I’m trying to keep her safe!”

A pause. Mother’s voice softens in the worse way. “Oh, Oksana.”

“No, don’t ‘oh, Oksana’ me. Someone tried to kill me last night. I just dropped a rubbish bag full of his extremities into an oil tanker and I’d prefer not to have to keep doing that. It’s exhausting. And I ruined my new trainers. They were Balenciaga, Mother.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Can you help me?”

“Yes.” Another pause. “Call her.”

“She can call me first.”

“Oksana.”

“Get me the help. Check and see if someone ordered that hit on me. Get back to me. That’s all.”

“You wouldn’t have brought her up if you didn’t want my advice.”

“Well, now I don’t like your advice, so never mind.” She smirks in spite of herself. “It was nice to talk to you, Mother.”

“You too, Oksana. Take care. Try to be good.”

 

 

 

 

 


	6. a squeal

 

 

 

 

It’s nearly sunrise when her phone buzzes with the familiar number. She picks it up and crawls to the edge of her bed to catch sight of the faint peach glow over the roofs of this part of town, their peaks darkened to blood red in the new light. She has a few plants on the sill here; they exist not out of any particular love for greenery, but because they were sitting there when she arrived and she hasn’t gotten around to throwing them out. She feels little sympathy for the previous tenant, and does not want to acknowledge that there is some sort of ritual worth observing in keeping a dead man’s plants alive, but she finds herself watering them regardless. Maybe they will come in handy later when she feels the need to destroy something. Sometimes there is a twisted kind of satisfaction in denying a living thing what it needs to survive, to witness and be responsible for its slow demise.

But oh, the number on her phone makes her want to water a whole fucking garden, the disaster of it all. How _dare_ she, Villanelle thinks sometimes, when she remembers a certain way Eve has looked at her and suddenly considers sending a whole room full of roses like some kind of besotted child. Disgusting. Awful, really. She ought to be ashamed of herself, so ashamed that she needs to be punished, put in her place, made an example of with a sharp fingernail pressed to her --

“I can hear you breathing.”

She clears her throat, the reverie dispelled. “Hello Eve. I didn’t expect you to call.”

“I wanted to know if you made it back in one piece.”

Villanelle begins rubbing a leaf between her fingers. “Would you prefer if I was vivisected?”

A pause. “Vivisection doesn’t mean you’re cut into pieces. It means you’re conscious when they do an experimental surgery.”

She freezes, hand tight around the stem of the rubber fig, caught in a rare error. “Right.”

“It’s confusing because of the use of the root ‘section’, but you are not literally sectioning someone off.”

“I knew that.”

Eve’s tone indicates her amusement. “Clearly you didn’t.”

She snaps a bit of leaf off the plant. “Fuck you.”

“You wish.” A few drawn out breaths, something Villanelle can imagine, the pulse of Eve’s throat, the warmth of her skin there. Eve’s gone too far with that joke, and she knows it, and now she’s trying to backtrack. “Well, you’re back wherever you are. There’s clearly nothing else to say, so that’s it, then.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, I’m not happy. I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

“That’s interesting, since you just keep talking to me at the minute.”

“I haven’t forgotten what you said to me in Paris.”

“Which part?”

“The whole…” Another pause. “Everything you said about me.”

“I said plenty of very complimentary things about you.”

“The part about my marriage.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s hardly the worst thing one of us has said to the other.”

“It’s…this thing between us, between you and I.” Another pause. “It’s over.”

“What’s over? I was unaware something was occurring that needed to be ended. I wish I had been informed when it started.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“For fuck’s sake.” A frustrated sigh on the other end. Villanelle can picture her massaging her temples, the way her hair falls forward when she’s stressed. “Look, it’s not my job anymore to...understand you. Professionally-speaking, I have moved on.”

“I see. So this was always about the job.” She can’t help but smirk at it all. “I was an assignment. That makes sense, most people want to fuck their job or whatever.”

“Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Villanelle snorts. “You called me first.”

“Well, now I’m blocking you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m blocking you right now.”

“We’re on the phone.”

“When we hang up, then.”

“So hang up.”

“Why aren’t _you_ hanging up?”

She rolls her eyes. “Because, Eve. I’m not the one who wants to block the other person. That’s on you.”

“Why do I have to do everything?”

“Spoken like a true bottom.”

“Excuse me?”

“Google it, Blackbird. I’ll hang up.”

And she does. Releases a long sigh of frustration and falls back into bed. Knowing she’ll need to be awake in another hour anyhow, she stares at her ceiling, imagining a myriad of ways she might appear at Eve’s door in London, the outfits that might best fit this scenario, the lines of honesty that might be required to allow her entry. She doesn’t let herself think about what would happen once she’s inside, though, because it would probably involve something ill-advised in the long run. Doomed every which way, she thinks, and grinds her teeth until it’s time to shower.

  
  
  
  


 

The Romans named this day of the week for the moon, a romantic notion that must have appealed to the rest of the northern empire, where it was picked up and passed around like a fun little convention. But in this city, in this part of the continent, no such romanticism existed. Instead, the etymology of the word tells us that this is the miserable day after something much better, “after Sunday” or “after holiday”, a reminder that Monday is perpetually a kind of aftermath.

So, like most other people in business casual, Villanelle sits down at her desk in the way that the day called _pondělí_ has always intended: in a state of emotional and psychological fallout.

A year ago at this time, she would probably still be asleep. Once awake, likely hours from now, she’d have a leisurely breakfast of fruit and pastries, probably eaten in bed, on her back, maybe off the freckled bowl of some woman’s bare middle. She wouldn’t be able to see the blood under her fingernails for the new shade of matte taupe polish covering them. Maybe she’d get a call from Konstantin. Maybe she’d ignore it and have another round with her bedmate. Maybe she’d slowly make her way down to the square at the center of whatever city she was in, tail her mark for a while, drink an espresso or a good glass of wine or suck a parfait with a spoon. The only thing on her agenda would be killing off one person or another, and that was something she typically did on her own schedule, in the manner she happened to prefer that day. It was blissful in its own way.

Today, Jaroslav is already hanging over her desk when she sits down, one of his horrifically pungent protein shakes in his left fist. A compact man who she is certain prefers tracksuits when he doesn’t have to dress for the office, his attempts to bulk up are now part of the weekly narrative. He holds a USB drive in front of her face.

“Can you finish this before lunch?”

“Good morning to you too, Jaroslav.”

“Giulia was working on it--”

“So have Giulia finish it.”

“Giulia does not have time.” He takes a swig of the shake. “Look, you know how it is - you’re the most junior in the department, so, you know, eh...how do you say it? ‘Work slides downhill’, I think.”

 _The most junior._ To her knowledge, Villanelle is one of only two members of the department who have previously worked in the field, the other being a Belarusian named Maxim who smokes Ziganov Blacks at his desk and has yet to speak a word to her. Before he was in Retirement, she knows that Jaroslav was working IT - not to be underestimated, of course, since there is an unfortunately true story about Jaroslav hacking American government servers while getting sucked off in some resort’s pool in Croatia - and she knows that _he_ knows that her file is very clear about what she used to do for the organization, so she assumes his balls are bigger than that for referring to her as the most junior. Has she been here for the shortest amount of time? Yes. Could she kill everyone else in the office in a short amount of time? Also, yes.

But she’s keeping her head down and being very well-behaved, so she takes the USB from his hand, smiles unconvincingly, and slides it into her monitor.

“Fine.”

“Cheers.” He blinks. “Did you do anything at the weekend?”

“I had a date.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s exciting. How did it go?”

“Terribly.” The folders begin opening on her computer, and she extracts the files, gnawing the inside of her mouth.

“Oh.” Jaroslav frowns. “Did something awkward happen?”

“We had drinks, I had to kill someone, and then she went back to her husband.”

Jaroslav stares at her, mouth agape, for a solid minute, and then laughs loudly. “Oksana, you have such a dark sense of humor.” He keeps laughing, much to her irritation. “That is a good one, yes. You got me there for a minute. Very good joke.”

She stares at him, unblinking.

“Okay, well, I will let you start your work.” He waves uncomfortably, retreating back to his desk.

Across the room, Maxim is looking at her from over the top of his computer monitor, a Ziganov hanging out the corner of his mouth, a halo of smoke around his head. She makes a disgusted face, and he goes back to his work. She puts in her headphones, and like some predictable cliche, turns on _Monday, Monday._

  
  
  
  


 

By the afternoon, she’s restless and miserable, turning over the phone call from much earlier, sulking in a way that Mother would surely have curtailed had she been doing it in the chalet. There’s a market a few streets from the office, and she goes there for a childish lunch of candy, a bag stuffed with chocolate that she already starts eating as she’s walking out.

“как дела?”

She rolls her eyes, not replying. Maxim is leaning against the wall outside the market, a Kofola in one hand, a plastic sack in the other. His shaved head makes clear the scars on his scalp, common enough injuries for someone who used to be in their line of work.

“A girl named Oksana from Chelyabinsk who does not speak Russian. Very strange.”

She sniffs dismissively. “What do you want?”

“To introduce myself, finally. My name is Maxim.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Most call me Max.” He tilts his head. “I’m from Vitebsk.”

“So you should have led with Belarusian.”

“Ці размаўляеце па-беларуску?”

“Yes, clearly.”

He gives her a long and appraising glance, seeming far too pleased with himself. “So you are a little _розовый,_ yes?”

At this word, she steps close enough to yank off his testicles should the need arise. “If you call me that again, I’ll slice open your scrotum and make you drink what comes out.”

“There she is.” He grins crookedly, eyes narrowed. “Now I recognize you. I could not reconcile the Villanelle of legend with the one who sits at that desk every day.”

She hides the fact this has caught her off guard, holding her chin at a high angle. “I’m not a legend.”

“Your kills are.”

“No one in the organization should know anything about anyone else’s kills, Maxim.”

“Max. You can call me Max.” He continues to smile. “Don’t pretend you weren’t aware that they used you as an example.”

“An example of what, Maxim?”

“Effectiveness.”

She looks him over, trying to see what’s beneath this amused smirk, the pointed Slavic features that reveal absolutely nothing but shallow mirth. “Clearly you want something if you’re attempting flattery.”

“You went to the Swiss doctor, yes?”

She says nothing, opening her chocolate. Peeling back the wrapper to break off a square.

“Beautiful spot she has on that mountain.”

“Get to wherever you’re going with this.”

“I am making conversation, that’s all. She is an excellent surgeon.” He lifts his pants leg, revealing a thick white scar running the length of his calf. “She is the reason I still have a foot.”

“How nice for you.”

“I’m sure you are equally grateful to her for saving your life.”

“Correct me if I am wrong, Maxim, but you shouldn’t know anything about me, especially not where I was before this.” She gives him the nastiest smile she can muster. “To be frank, you’re coming across as a real creepy piece of shit.”

Maxim laughs at this, his head tilting back with the effort. She finds his mannerisms slightly embarrassing. He seems far too excited to draw attention to himself. “You are just as I imagined.”

“I’d prefer if you hadn’t imagined anything.”

“Do you still talk to the good doctor?”

She takes a bite of her chocolate, chewing it with exaggeration, and walking away, a single finger raised to indicate her willingness to participate further in the conversation. His laughter follows her down the alley and back up to the office.

But it troubles her, regardless: his manner, his interest, the way he wanted her to know what he knew. His motivation is unclear. She spends the rest of the day never once looking towards his corner of the room, though she can feel his eyes on her at times. Another Villanelle would march over and hold a pushpin to his jugular, but of course, this one is keeping her head down, so this is what she does. She keeps her head down, keeps typing away at her paperwork, and seethes in silence. If certain images of Eve from this weekend surface, if they are washed over immediately and very purposefully with the red haze of eviscerating a human body in her bathtub, it is all too fitting.

  
  
  
  


 

“We don’t have another retirement until next Wednesday.”

“Good.”

“Good? How can you say that it’s good?”

“Some people are grateful for the time in a seat.” Piotr is gnawing on his pork neck, swiping left and right on his phone. The arched ceilings of the pub are heavy with smoke, the light filtering through the windows turned a sour yellow, catching the scratchy voices of whiskered old men and the people in suits draining weary pints. This is Piotr’s favorite place to linger after a long day, a decent haul from the office but one of the few places no one pays much attention to their talk of work. A tourist might occasionally wander in, but then leave confused a minute later when they are offered no greeting or told what to do. “Jaroslav calls these weeks ‘paper days’.”

“I hate them.”

He shrugs, sucking fat from his long fingers. He is tall and lanky, his fine blonde hair grown to his shoulders, complementing a close-trimmed beard that he is vain about, full lips that would not be out of place on a woman. He favors silk shirts unbuttoned nearly to his navel, a Pole in his early forties trying to look like a Gallic rocker in his twenties, though lovely enough to pull it off. When they first met, she’d cocked her head and remarked on his prettiness, which she still feels slightly envious of. “I don’t mind it. There isn’t as much laundry during these weeks. Less…” He gestures at his front with the hand holding his phone. A peek of bare male flesh appears between his fingers. “Splatter.”

“Please.” She snorts. “This is the cleanest work I’ve ever done. You should see some of the bloodbaths I left behind. Your pointy little Saint Laurents would scream and run away.”

“Says the girl who spends a thousand euro on a pair of trainers.”

“What else am I supposed to do with my money? Go on a holiday?”

Piotr eyes a man on the other side of the room, clean cut in a suit and tie, pale eyes and dark hair, a certain softness to his expression. Villanelle sighs, aware he will probably abandon her early now to go fuck this man, but sips her beer as if she is in no rush. “Speaking of holidays,” he says, his attention back on her. “How was your date?”

She has not told him of the exact nature of her relationship with Eve. What he knows is that there is a woman, and that this woman does not live in Prague, and that Villanelle must leave Prague to see her. A man who has learned the lesson of discretion the hard way, he has never asked more, and doesn’t seem to be interested in unwinding her particular enigmas. She appreciates this quality in him.

“Disastrous.”

This gets a raised eyebrow out of him. “How so?”

“Things became.. _.complicated_.”

“Did you at least have sex?”

“Hardly.”

“Have you had sex with her before?”

“No.”

“Villanelle, come on.” He gives her a look. “You can’t go this long without a fuck.”

She smirks at him. “For someone who isn’t attracted to women, you’re awfully invested in my sapphic activities, Piotr.”

“It’s entirely out of concern for your health, _kotku_.”

“It’s no use anyway. I don’t want anyone else.”

He seems to assume she’s joking, and laughs as a result. “Hilarious.”

“I’m a very focused individual, you know this. I don’t like pulling my attention away from the things that I've prioritized. It's my gift and curse.”

“I do know it, yes. God, I miss Gdańsk.” He smirks at her, sitting back in his chair. “I would have loved a charge like you. Much more interesting than the dull rule-abiding ones they kept giving me.” Before he came to Retirement, Piotr was a handler. He requested the reassignment for reasons he has never disclosed to her, though she suspects they have something to do with a dead man whose initials are tattooed on the back of Piotr’s neck. Everyone in Retirement used to be somewhere else. It is yet another irony of the department.

“Did you ever hear about Maxim when he was in the field?”

“Maxim? From the office?” Piotr sets his phone down. “Why?”

“He tried to talk to me today. I didn’t like it. Actually, I don’t like him, period.”

“No one likes him. He’s unpleasant.”

“He’s nosy.”

“Is he?” Piotr leans forward. “What did he want to talk about?”

“He knew what I was doing before this.”

“Everyone knows you were on contracts.”

“No, _specifically_ what I was doing, and where. No one but Jaroslav and Gunther is supposed to know where I was.”

“Maybe they said something to him. People in the office talk to each other. Look at us, talking to each other right now. Talking about our sex lives, even, or lack thereof.”

She shoots him a look. “Oh, very nice.”

“I’m just saying, he could have heard about it without it being insidious. He is unpleasant, yes, but I don’t know anything about him being dangerous.”

“He and I are dangerous by nature. That’s why we did that job.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. The mad ones don’t end up in Retirement.” His mouth twists into a wicked grin, though it’s an affectionate one. “Present company excluded.”

  
  
  
  


 

She buys a temporary phone card on the way home, dialing as she takes the narrow stairs to her apartment two at a time. Mother picks up on the third ring.

“Oksana. I was hoping you’d call.”

“Do you have anything for me?"

“I have no evidence of a hit from inside the organization, I can tell you that much.”

She grunts, not that the reverse would have been better, but it would have been simpler. “Did someone test the samples I sent on?”

“Indeed they did.”

“And?”

“Alcohol in one syringe, Haloperidol in the other.”

She almost laughs at the predictability of it. “How very old school of him. Where does he think he is, a gulag?”

“I assume he was planning torture rather than death, but neither would have been pleasant. It does make one wonder what he was hoping to hear in the throes of it.”

“Anything on his ID?”

“He’s coming up as Pitter Baarsma, but if he is the real Pitter Baarsma, I don’t know. The one in these records has a wife and two children, and a residence in Earnewâld, Tytsjerksteradiel. Schoolteacher.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. I will forward you the files.” A pause. “Oksana, you may want to pay his family a visit. A friendly visit, not a threatening one.”

“When am I ever threatening, Mother?”

“And I think you should take Eve with you.”

She fumbles with her key in the lock, nearly dropping the ring. “Now I know you are kidding.”

“You are safest together. Also, she is an investigator, you are not.”

“How hard is it to investigate? If anything, it’s better for me to do it because people tend to confess things to me with less effort.”

“You can’t just violently smash your way through every obstacle, Oksana.”

“When was the last time I smashed anything?”

“Intimidation is not the best tactic here.”

“Fine.” She sighs. “But I’m not bringing Eve.”

“Are you still protecting her, Oksana? It’s very admirable.”

A snort. “Trust me, she wouldn’t come if I asked.”

“So you still haven’t made up from your fight.”

“She said she was going back to her husband.”

“And did she really go back to him?

“I don’t know.” She sighs, locking the door behind her. Contemplating the takeaway numbers pinned up next to the entry. “I don’t care. Whatever. There are other generously-haired women in Europe who don’t come with marital baggage.”

“There is only one Eve, Oksana. But I think you know that.”

She groans. “You’re not helping, Mother.”

“Look at all the ways I’ve helped you this evening, Oksana. I will continue to help you if you take my advice.”

“I’ll think about it.” She pulls a bottle of slivovice out from the cabinet in the tiny kitchen, slides a glass across the counter. “Mother, did you ever take care of someone named Maxim?”

“You know I can’t tell you about my other patients, Oksana.”

“But everything else you told me about tonight was fine.”

“Patient confidentiality is another matter, as you know.”

“I don’t want to know what he suffered from. I just want to know if he was there as your patient.”

A long pause. “Yes, there was a Maxim here at one time.”

“Can I trust him?”

“I would have no idea. As a rule, I would tell you that no one in the organization can be trusted.”

“Except you.”

“It is your choice to trust me, Oksana. I will do my best to maintain that trust on my end.”

“I know.” She takes a sip, wincing slightly at the heat in her throat. “Listen, Mother. If you happen to remember anything particularly vile about this Maxim, will you let me know?”

“I will, yes.”

“Thank you. And thank you for everything else.”

“Of course, Oksana.”

“You’re very good to me, Mother.”

“What else is a Mother for?”

  
  
  
  


 

She waits until Tuesday evening to do it. Probably because half of her thinks it is humiliating to even ask. Perhaps because the other half is practically salivating at the thought of being close to her again, and this may be the next opportunity, the only opportunity.

So she texts her, and waits.

 

> I have the name and address of the man who came to torture Blackbird.

 

 

 

 

 

On Thursday, Eve responds.

 

> That’s interesting.
> 
> I knew it. You didn’t block me.
> 
> Tell me more about the man.
> 
> His wife and two children still live at the address.
> 
> He is supposed to be a teacher.
> 
> You’re kidding.
> 
> I know.
> 
> So what are you going to do?
> 
> I’m going to ask you to come with me to investigate.
> 
> Closest airport is Groningen.
> 
> I would pick you up from the terminal on Friday evening.

  
  
  


 

 

Nearly midnight, finally, her phone buzzes on the pillow next to her.

 

 

> Fine.
> 
> I’ll do it.

> That’s nice to hear, Eve.

  

> But only because I’m interested in finding out why.
> 
> Of course.
> 
> Curiosity would otherwise kill the cat.
> 
> Don’t even start.
> 
> And we know the state of your cat when its curiosity is unsatisfied.
> 
> Literally, what did I just say?
> 
> I’ll see you tomorrow evening.
> 
> My flight gets in around five.
> 
> I’ll have a rental car for us.
> 
> Fine.

  
  


 

 

 

Eve doesn’t see her at first. This gives Villanelle a few brief moments to watch the other woman as she steps into the terminal, her suitcase trailing her, her sunglasses pushed up into that mass of dark hair. She’s dressed for travel -- a hooded sweatshirt under her leather jacket, tight jeans. Villanelle’s nose crinkles as she sees the white trainers, smirking. She is comfortable. She has made herself appear comfortable and vulnerable and settled in. Eve pauses, looking around, one hand in a fist that she clutches to her front, the other tight on her luggage, and then her eyes fall on Villanelle.

Villanelle smiles.

  
  
  
  


 

“Are you driving?”

Villanelle shrugs, putting both of their suitcases in the boot. “Is there a problem with that?”

“No.”

“Do you think I’m going to get suddenly murderous and steer the car off a cliff?”

“No.”

“Then we should be just fine.” She slides into the driver’s seat. “Of course there aren’t any cliffs in this country, so the best I can do is drown us in a marsh.”

A few kilometres outside of the airport, the countryside rolling by in its predictable green flatness, a wide damp patchwork of yellowing squares and scrubby lines of trees that mark the boundaries of fields, and she lifts her eyebrows. “Oh no,” she gasps, her jaw dropping open. “I have the sudden urge to kill us both in vehicular manslaughter.”

“Don’t,” Eve says, tapping her lightly on the arm, but there’s a smirk playing there, undeniable, and Villanelle’s chest thrums like the most foolish machine, whirring to life.

  
  
  


 

 

Over time, Eve settles more into her chair. She fiddles with her hair, twisting it between her fingers, or gnaws on the corner of her thumb. Villanelle watches all of this from the corner of her eye, endlessly charmed. It is distracting, and she would change none of it.

Finally, Eve looks over at her, brows furrowed in that serious way. “I’m back together with Nico. I just wanted to say that, because I feel like it should be out in the open.”

She had expected as much. “Mazel tov on such a speedy recovery.”

“There is no non-awkward way to ask this, so...” Eve appears to be chewing on her bottom lip. “You’re not going to kill him, right?”

She snorts. “Why would I do that, Eve?”

“You killed Anna’s husband.”

Always with Anna. _Always._ “I did, yes.”

“I just need to make sure you’re not going to do the same with Nico.”

“Are you going to ask me to kill Nico, Eve?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not going to kill him. It’s really that simple.”

A few minutes pass, Eve’s eyes still on her. “Anna asked you to do it.”

“Yes.”

“That’s the only reason you killed him. Because she asked.”

“I mean, I never liked him, if that’s what you’re getting at, but he wasn’t a threat. I fuck all kinds of women with husbands.” She gives her a look. “Don’t I?”

“Nico and I were separated.”

“But you’re not anymore. Good for you, making it work in the golden age of divorce. You’re an example to the rest of us. Love isn’t dead.”

Eve rolls her eyes, her smile difficult to parse. “Now you’re just being a bitch.”

“I believe I’m always being a bitch.”

“No, sometimes you’re sweet.”

She laughs out loud. “Sweet?”

“Something like sweet. I don’t know. Anna asked you to kill him and you just did it?”

“I would have chewed off my own hand if she’d said it offended her.”

“Jesus.”

She shrugs. “Ah, you know. First love. Always intense.” She thinks for a brief moment of Anna’s hand tight on her shoulder, her teeth in her neck. The throaty sounds she’d make as if she wanted the neighbors to suspect, to know for sure. The photos Anna would send of the bruises on the inside of her legs, the shock of her bare flesh in front of a mirror with her interiors on display. “Always crazy.”

“The craziest thing I did for my first boyfriend was give him a handjob in his parents’ car.”

“Scandalous, Eve.”

“And then he broke up with me a few days later because this other girl said she’d give him a blowjob _and_ a handjob.”

“So did you start giving blowjobs? Or anal? Competitive edge there.”

Eve gives her a look, though she remains serious. “Actually, I hooked up with his best friend, and it tore them apart, he was inconsolable about it. They never spoke to each other again.”

She smirks at this. “Interesting. A very Eve answer.”

“How so?”

“Well, you could have just cried about it and moved on. Or you could have graduated to a new level of sexual favors to see if you could win him back. But your choice says that you wanted vengeance and you wanted to hurt him somewhere personal, somewhere you knew he was vulnerable. So, you ruined a relationship. You devastated him, probably at an age where he didn’t know how to handle an emotional fallout like that.” She looks over at her, briefly, just long enough to see the look in her eye. “You chose the cruelest option.”

Eve stares at her, mouth slightly ajar, blinking. “Did you not hear what I said? He broke up with me.”

“And how long did you date?”

She seems suddenly embarrassed to answer. “I don’t remember, maybe three weeks.”

“So he ended a three-week long teenage fling, and you destroyed his closest relationship in response.”

“You’re making it sound worse than it was.”

“Oh, I think it was pretty bad, Eve.”

Eve is shaking her head, her hair a storm. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing you do where you try to...I don’t know, reveal some deep dark pit inside me.”

She raises her eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Eve looks out her window, hand under her chin. “Never mind.”

She almost hates herself for asking, to keep bringing the concept of him into the car, but she still doesn’t have the full measure of the situation yet and she wants to know where Eve’s new boundaries are if they are there at all. “So does he know you’re here?”

“Nico?”

“I assume your husband will want to know why you have taken off to the continent again to get in a car with a person like myself.”

“He knows I’m here.”

“With me?”

A coughing noise, poorly disguised. “Not with you, no.”

“So it’s just a solo jaunt of mysterious circumstances.”

“Yes, and he’s fine with it.”

She pretends at a face of pleasant surprise. “Well, isn’t that something. He respects whatever you want to do. Blindly trusts you, even.”

Eve does not answer for a minute. The sound of the road, the smooth noise of the car is heavier than her silence, and then she nods once. “Yes.”

“That’s very progressive of him. Of both of you.”

“I think that’s a normal thing for couples to do.”

“It would depend on your definition of normal.” She glances over at the other woman, trying to read her. “You’ve come a long way, then. I thought you were hiding all this from him before.”

“We’ve moved on.”

“That’s good. I suppose he didn’t deserve all the shit you put him through.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nico. The only crime he ever committed was being consistent.” She rubs at the edge of her mouth absentmindedly. “And not being me, of course.”

“Not being you.” Eve repeats herself. She has a strange new look to her. “You really think I wanted to leave him because he wasn’t you.”

“I think that was part of it, yes, and I don’t think you could deny that at all.”

“What do you think you are to me?”

“I know exactly what I am.”

“Then what I am to you?”

She laughs. “Eve, I’m sure you already--”

And this is when Eve does something quite unexpected. She manually unlocks and opens the passenger side door.

Villanelle swerves slightly in response, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

Eve is leaning hard on the door to keep it open; her other hand is close to the seatbelt buckle. “Giving you an ultimatum.”

Villanelle jerks the wheel to the left, slamming the door shut again. Eve yells at the impact, leaning into her, and her head collides with Villanelle’s shoulder. Villanelle slams her foot on the brake, and the car squeals forward regardless, the ground dipping and the nose of it going with it, until there is a dark splash and the white mass of an airbag colliding with her face.

  
  
  
  


 

Her head lolls back, the wet metallic taste of blood the first thing she registers. Her hand goes to her face, wipes weakly until it finds the wetness under her nose and smeared on her mouth. Probably broken. She squeezes the nostrils, then groans. Definitely broken.

She looks over, the passenger door open, the seat empty behind the deflated white bag.

“Fuck,” she groans, unbuckling herself and sliding out, stepping into water that comes up to her knees. “Eve?”

The car is nose down in a canal. Of course. The front has collapsed rather artfully into the face of a dike.

“Eve?” She tries again, hands cupped around her mouth, stumbling slightly.

A splash on the other side of the car. Eve is walking down the canal, sloshing along, falling forward and catching herself. She turns to look at Villanelle, one eye closed, a dab of red under her nose, and shakes her head.

“Hey,” she says, pushing around the other side of the car, struggling to keep up. “Hey, Eve, _wait._ ”

But Eve is trying to hoist herself out of the canal, and failing miserably. She collapses on her back on the bank, arms at her sides, panting. Villanelle grunts to keep up, to pull herself next to her, nearly getting a mouthful of grass in the process.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” she wheezes, the pain in her face finally beginning to come through to the surface.

Eve is staring at the sky, breathing hard. “You’re always the one in control.”

“What?”

“You.” She turns, gives her a look that could crush Villanelle’s heart like a can. “You always have to be in fucking control, don’t you? Have the last word, make all the terms.”

“Around you? Hardly.” She grabs her forehead, wincing. “I mean, what are you even talking about? The last time I saw you, you literally begged me to take your life decisions out of your hands. The time before that, you stabbed me with the intent to kill.”

“I didn’t want to kill you. I wasn’t in control of that.”

“Really? _Really?”_ She knows her expression must look half-possessed now, but she doesn’t care. “I didn’t realize the knife was a sentient fucking being, Eve!”

Eve’s hands cover her face, and she emits a low noise somewhere between a moan and a howl. “Fucking hell.”

“Fucking hell is right.” She lets out a long breath, her chest still aching slightly from the impact. “You could have died.”

“I think...I wanted to see what you would do.”

She looks over at her, Eve’s face still hidden by her fingers, a dark drip of blood running down her cheek. The ache in her chest takes on a new warmth. “That’s actually crazy.”

Eve laughs, a ragged sound. “I know.”

“I mean, that might even be beyond my level of crazy.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Since I can’t really move right now, I suppose I can’t say no.”

“The way you felt about Anna, the whole “chew your hand off” thing. Do you feel that way about me?”

She sees one finger lift, stares into Eve’s single eye, so clear, so probing. “No.”

And the eye closes, and the finger is replaced. “Oh.”

“The way it was with Anna, it was...not good. It was like always having a demon in my head.” She tries to prop herself up onto her elbows, her feet still sunk in the canal. “It doesn’t feel like that with you. I mean, I would do many things for you if you asked me. Even bad things. I have done them, as you know. But it’s not because I think something apocalyptic will happen if I don’t.”

Eve’s hands slowly pull away from her face, and she blinks up at the sky. Licks her lips. Villanelle watches. “Sometimes I think I’m...jealous of her.”

“You shouldn’t be, since she’s very much dead.”

“But what it must have been like, to know that you felt that way about her…” She looks over at her suddenly, forehead creasing. “Fuck, this must sound so stupid. I must sound like an idiot.”

Villanelle only shakes her head a little. “It’s fine. Though you did just threaten to roll out of a moving car as a way of...what was it again? Seeing how I’d react? That was rather stupid.” She pulls herself closer, the grass squeaking under them. “Did I react the way you thought I would?"

Eve nods, her voice quiet. “Yes.”

“You expected me to drive us into a canal.”

“I expected you to save me.”

“Well.” And she doesn’t quite know what to say to that, not anymore. “I’ve done that before. I don’t know why you had to prove it in that drastic way.”

Eve’s eyes narrow. “You pushed it too far with the Nico thing.”

Villanelle sighs, finally sitting upright. She slides back down into the water, starts walking towards the car. Only when she doesn’t hear Eve follow does she stop and turn to her. “Are you really back with him?”

“Yes.”

“That’s really what you want?”

“I think so.”

“You can’t have us both, you know. Not because I have any sort of pride about it. I don’t really care.” She pauses. “But it’ll destroy you, I think, going between us.”

Eve says nothing, only watches her, pulls her knees to her front as she sits up. “I seem determined to self-destruct, don’t I?”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes.” She wades back to the car, makes an attempt to assess the damage. “Well, so much for my deposit.”

Eve finally sloshes over to her, sighing. “I’ll pay for it, obviously.”

“You know what the only good thing about this is?”

“I can’t imagine.”

And Villanelle goes to the place where the car has collided with the reinforced wall, and grins. “We've penetrated a dike.”

  
  
  
  
  


 


	7. always, always, always

 

 

 

 

They are watching the tow truck slowly pull the car from the canal, both of them shifting from foot to foot, squeaking from the weight of water in their clothes. Villanelle with a long brown stain from nostril to chin, Eve clutching her arms to herself as if she is afraid of becoming unmoored. As if whatever the hook yanks from the water might twist around her, yank her out, too. Villanelle bends down to grab at a clump of tall grasses that line the side of the road, twisting a stalk between her fingers, pulling it out for appraisal.

“Nice day,” Villanelle says, even though the sky has lowered like a ceiling and is a blank white mass. “I mean, it could be pouring. We have that going for us.”

Eve’s teeth are slightly chattering. “Have you ever been to this region before?”

She shakes her head, stashing the blade of grass between her teeth. “No, have you?”

“No.” Eve is pushing her hair back, now twice as frizzy from the moisture. “Do you want to hear a strange thought I’ve just had?”

“Always.”

“I used to wonder what it looked like from your perspective. The places you went, the things you did. And it was hard to imagine, in a way, because you always seem so sure of yourself, like you belong wherever you are, so I thought that it all seemed mundane to you. Cities become backdrops instead of things to notice.”

“That happens when you frequently travel for work.”

“But right now, wherever I’m looking, that’s how you’re seeing it, too, because it’s new to both of us.” She’s quiet for a moment, just breathing, and Villanelle looks over to see Eve’s hands in the pocket of her jacket, her nose tucked down into the soaked collar of her sweatshirt. “That probably sounds so stupid.”

“Don’t do that.”

Eve looks up. “Do what?”

“You always add this disclaimer about your stupidity or naivete or whatever. Don’t do that.” She nudges her slightly with her shoulder. “It is useful to be underestimated, and you should take advantage of the fact that people underestimate you. But you should never underestimate  _ yourself. _ ”

Eve seems to be studying her, watching, eyes narrowed as if she is waiting to find a crack. But she gives up, her shoulders relaxing, and there is the slightest tilt to her mouth. “Fine.”

“Are you cold?”

“Freezing. Every bit of my clothing is soaked.” She pulls on the sleeve of her leather jacket. “I can't believe I ruined this jacket.”

“It isn’t ruined. You wouldn’t believe the things a quality leather jacket can endure. Blood, canal water.” She gives her a look, unable to help herself. “Female ejaculate. The only thing it really doesn’t care for is stomach acid. But you only make that mistake once, trust me. When your favorite Dunhill is melting off your arm because you overestimated where to slice a man open, it’s a lesson learned.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

The rental company seems to be in no rush to send on another vehicle, what with their having totaled this one, so the plan is slightly altered. Villanelle waits for Eve to protest when she suggests they go straight to the cottage, but Eve says nothing, only asks how much it is so she can offer up half. Counts out a wad of cash and hands it to her.

“Don’t put it on your card,” Eve says. “We don’t want them to trace you to here.”

“Yeah, I didn’t learn how to be an assassin this morning.” She winks. “I think we’ll be fine.”

Eve’s hand goes to her face, though it is not because they are about to kiss, or because she is stroking her there, or because something is about to happen. She cups it so she can look closer at Villanelle’s injuries, and winces in sympathy. “Your nose looks awful.”

“I’m sure it does. I think it’s broken.”

“It’s turning a lot of colors, and it’s, uh...it’s big.” Eve drops her hand, holds it closer to herself as if the contact caused it pain. “I can dress it when we get there, if you like.”

“It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“Oh, it hurts. I don’t really care, though.”

“How can you not care?”

“I’ve been well-trained not to care about pains that are not life-threatening. You learn not to notice them after a while.” She tries a cocky grin. “Mind over matter and all that.”

“I’ll put something on it when we get there.”

“You don’t have to take care of me.”

“I know,” Eve says, and then nothing else until the car gets there.  
  
  
  
  


 

 

The taxi drops them in front of the house, red-roofed in the local style, the canal singing quietly behind it, bare trees framing the white windows.

“Not the best time of year to enjoy the national park,” the driver says, pulling their things from the boot and dropping them onto the gravel path. “But very quiet if you want to have the place to yourself. You could drop a body in the wetlands and nobody would know.”

Eve seems to be hiding her alarm. Villanelle chuckles at him. “What do you think we are going to get up to?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to guess.” He winks. “You look like quite the pair.”

“We are.”

He takes her money, smirks. “You have my number if anyone tries to bother you.”

“And you’ll do what?” She pretends to accidentally drop her suitcase onto his foot, though it is entirely intentional. “Come to our rescue?”

“You never know.” He waves as he gets into his car, none the wiser.

“Jesus,” Eve says, hand shielding her eyes as she watches him pull away. “That was eerie. What was he implying? Do you think he’s working with someone?”

“He was trying to fuck us, Eve.”

“What?”

“He thinks we’re a couple. He’s angling for a threesome.” She starts pulling her things up the path, not waiting for Eve to keep up. “Obviously if he was stupid enough to show up again, I would probably castrate him or something.”

Eve is beside her, her suitcase in her hand. “Have you ever had a threesome?”

She snorts. “What do you think?”

“I mean, I don’t want to assume, but…” She sees the way Villanelle is looking at her. “So yes, then.”

Villanelle stops at the door, fishing out her phone to find the code for entry. “Should we call him up? He still wants in on it when we both look like waterlogged shit, so he must be a real prince.”

Eve makes a face. “God, no. I’d rather stab myself in the neck.”

“Then why the inquiries?”

“I was just curious.”

“Have you ever had a threesome, Eve?”

A pause. “No.”

“Would you like to have one?”

“I wasn’t, um...I mean, I was just asking because you brought it up.”

“If we get a man, it’s less work, but a woman is more enjoyable.”

Eve blinks. “Sorry?”

The lock clicks, and Villanelle pushes the door open, smiling. “To be honest, I don’t think our dynamic lends itself well to sharing.”

“Right. Well...I was obviously not being serious.” Eve swallows, stepping inside, past Villanelle’s stretched arm. “Forget I brought it up.”

The house is smartly decorated, leather and copper, a few de Kooning prints on the walls. The bedroom is towards the back, overlooking the canal and the marsh beyond, floor to ceiling windows that let in the grey light. Villanelle inspects the place, sees nothing she objects to, and drops Eve’s suitcase onto the bed. “There you go.”

“Are you giving me the bedroom?”

She nods into the other room. “I can take the couch.”

“You don’t have to, I can just--”

Villanelle holds up a hand, shaking her head. “Let’s not turn this into some sad little debate. I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Okay.” Eve unzips her suitcase, but she does nothing else, still watching Villanelle. “What you did right there. That’s what I meant in the car, about how you can be sweet.”

“Because I offered to sleep on the couch?”

Eve nods. “Yes.”

Villanelle snorts. “That’s how I know you’ve been with men your whole life.”

“How’s that?”

“Your standards are really that low.” She wanders back out to the den, dropping herself onto the couch. “I’m not sleeping here to be chivalrous. It’s about the most basic courtesy I could offer you, Eve.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” Eve disappears from the doorway, and there’s the sound of other doors open, something sliding. “I’m going to take a hot shower. Is that alright?”

“You can do whatever you like, Eve.”

She gets no response, but she knows Eve, which means she knows the other woman is taking her time in getting undressed, turning over the comment, thinking on it as she runs her hands through her hair, stands under the water and tries to extract every possible meaning.

But the meaning is really that clear, sitting right on the surface: whatever Eve would like to do, Villanelle is more than happy to oblige. If Eve wants to tie them together forever, Villanelle will get the needle and sew the stitches in their flesh. If Eve wants her heart, she’ll offer scalpel or soul-bonding metaphors. If she wants a shower, she can have a lovely shower, Villanelle will hand crank the pump herself if necessary, or walk from canal to Eve, over and over, a bucket of water to pour over her skin.

  
  
  
  


 

 

Villanelle is still on the couch when the water turns off, her laptop on her knees. She’s found the webpage for Pitter Baarsma’s wife, and really, truly, it’s just incredible.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, scrolling through the woman’s page. Eve appears behind her, her hair up in a towel, her robe tightened at her waist. Villanelle lowers her eyes out of respect. Eve drops her chin down near Villanelle’s shoulder to look closer, then snorts, shaking her head.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, we  _ have _ to.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Eve, it’s too perfect.”

“No, don’t even think about it. I won’t do it.”

“What else do you propose we do?”

“I don’t know, break into the house when she’s not there. Pretend to be missionaries. Literally anything else.”

“And squander the most perfect opportunity that fate could have handed us?”

“No. It’s not happening. I mean it.”

“But it could be so fun.”

“No, Villanelle.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

Lore Baarsma, a reputable counselor specializing in couples therapy, runs her practice from her home, a square white house with a square white room for receiving clients. She has a blunt fringe that sits just above round glasses, a clear propensity for large and chunky jewelry that enliven her otherwise puce ensemble. Dr. Baarsma is silent while she flips through the paperwork on her lap, narrowing her eyes to read certain sections, then looks up with a smile.

“I noticed that you’re not local.”

Villanelle sits back, one leg slung over her other knee, her arm behind Eve’s head. She spreads herself as widely and angularly across the couch as possible. Eve had only raised an eyebrow when she’d seen Villanelle emerge from the closet in her current outfit: boots, ripped jeans, a Saint Laurent distressed military jacket over a white tee. Even when she explained the sheer price of every item of clothing, she wasn’t sure she’d communicated that this was a useful outfit with the potential to hide multiple weapons and utility tools. “We live in London, but you have  _ such  _ a reputation--”

“I do?” Dr. Baarsma blinks. “Well, I have a few German clients, but I didn’t realize anyone in the UK would want to travel this far.” She smiles, seeming easily satisfied with the most basic answer. “That’s good to know, of course.”

Villanelle tries to visualize the testimony from the bottom of the webpage, the smiling face beside a quote on Baarsma’s effectiveness as a counselor. “My friend Lucas is from Drachten and he said you were outstanding for his marriage.”

“Lucas Visser?”

She nods, smiling. “Old work colleagues.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear. They weren’t married at the time I saw them.” 

“And doesn’t that bode well for your practice? Clearly you’re the best.”

Baarsma nods again. Compliments will go far with this one, Villanelle notes, because this is far too easy. Apparently pleased with this vague reference to a referral, the doctor cocks her head, lowering her glasses down her nose. “So, let’s discuss your relationship. Were both of you on the same page about coming here, or was anyone reluctant?”

Next to her, Eve sighs and slightly raises her hand. “I don’t particularly want to be here.”

“Eva, was it?” Baarsma smiles at her. “Let’s start with the root of that, then.”   
  


 

  
  
  
  


“And how did you two meet?”

“Work,” they reply simultaneously, which almost sets Baarsma to laughing.

“I see. You know, so many of my clients were professional colleagues before they were romantic partners. It’s really the most common place to meet.”

“We weren’t exactly colleagues,” Villanelle says.

“We worked for...rival companies,” Eve adds. “We were in direct competition.”

“An interesting dynamic to start off on, for sure.”

Villanelle looks over at Eve, trying to hide her amusement at the other woman’s clear discomfort. “Oh, I think it added to the sexual tension in a satisfying way.”

“And has that sexual tension remained?”

Villanelle says nothing, waiting for Eve to answer. She feels Eve’s hip shift to press against hers, then the other woman’s shudder when she sighs. “I think physical attraction is the one thing we don’t have a problem with.”

“So your sex life is healthy and consistent?”

A pause. “It’s consistent.”

“Are you monogamous?”

Again, Villanelle is quiet, waiting to see how Eve will answer. “It’s complicated,” Eve says, which is a surprise to Villanelle, who chooses not to register shock in her expression. “I was married when we first met. I hadn’t been with women before. I mean, actually, technically I’ve been with a woman before, but it was just this one time and it was sort of weird, and I don’t think I really wanted to acknowledge that part of my sexuality, so I saw it as a...lapse in character, of a sort, and chose not to think very hard about it.”

Dr. Baarsma looks at Villanelle. “And Nell, was Eva the first woman you were ever with?”

“Oh god, no. I would say I’m ninety-ten women to men. I will fuck a man if a situation calls for it, but I am not capable of loving one. Actually, before Eva, I was sort of dating this man in Paris. But it was more or less a utilitarian situation.”

“I didn’t know that,” Eve says.

“Well, I didn’t know you had a lesbian experience before all this.”

“There was no reason for it to come up in conversation. It’s the distant past.”

“Anna is also the distant past.”

Eve’s eyes instinctively roll. “I explained the Anna thing.”

Dr. Baarsma is watching them, and she smiles when Villanelle turns to her. “It’s interesting to hear you discuss this instead of answering the question of monogamy.”

“I’ve slept with my ex-husband since she and I...since it escalated to what it is now.” Eve says. She is breathing slightly harder. “That’s why I said it’s complicated. And I don’t think she’s done the same. I think she’s been loyal to me all this time.”

“Is that true, Nell?”

Villanelle looks over at Eve, who is clearly avoiding her gaze. “I haven’t slept with anyone else. Not since Paris.”

“What happened in Paris? There seems to be a lot circling around this event in Paris.”

“I confessed my feelings,” Villanelle says, before Eve can come up with some other answer that may reveal too much.

“Ah, so you told her you were in love with her?”

Villanelle can feel Eve start to quiver next to her. “Yes,” she lies. “That’s what happened.”

“And did Eva say she was in love with you, too?”

“Yes,” Eve lies. “I did.”

“But since then you have slept with your ex-husband, which it sounds like was not something discussed beforehand.”

“Correct.”

“I don’t care, for the record,” Villanelle interjects. “And I mean that. She can do whatever she wants with whoever she wants. I don’t own her, and I’m not bothered by any of it.”

Dr. Baarsma looks at her over her glasses. “Yet you chose not to sleep with anyone else.”

“I mean...there weren’t a lot of options.”

“But the opportunity eventually presented itself?”

“Oh, sure. If I wanted to walk somewhere and have a fuck, I could do it easily.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Right, but I’m not bothered that she did.”

“Surely some part of you isn’t pleased with the concept of her having sex with her ex-husband.”

“I don’t...love it, no. I’m not going to sit here and picture it. But it isn’t a dealbreaker.”

“Do you wish she hadn’t done it, Nell?”

She pauses for effect, as if she has to really think about it. “I don’t mind that it happened.”

“But if you could choose between it happening and not happening--”

She raises her voice slightly, allowing herself to appear very upset. “Obviously I wish she wasn’t fucking Niko while I was nursing the wounds that were specifically inflicted by her, but it is what it is, and a ‘what if’ is not in the cards right now."

Dr. Baarsma looks as though she has just swung a metaphorical door wide open, and is pleased with the progress. “Good, Nell. That’s very good.”

She clears her throat. “May I, um...could I use your toilet?”

“Of course.” She gestures over her shoulder to the door behind her. “Two rooms down on the left.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


There are three doors in the hallway behind the receiving room, and Villanelle closes the one behind her as soon as she walks through, quietly moving from door to door, trying each. The first is unlocked -- a bedroom for two children, brightly colored toys, a giant giraffe, clearly young. Next the washroom, but Villanelle looks and then closes the door again, moving onto the next. A study, hopefully Pitter’s, hopefully with more information, at least a computer she can steal for the afternoon to dredge for data. She starts pulling drawers open as silently as possible, flicking through papers, opening files. She is interrupted by the door opening, Eve’s head appearing in the crack.

“Are you okay?”

Villanelle’s eyes widen. “What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, sliding the drawer closed again.

“Checking on you.”

“Why would you do that? Why aren’t you keeping an eye on her?”

Eve’s expression shifts to frustration, and she slips into the room, closing the door behind her. “Because you seemed  _ upset,  _ and you never seem upset.”

“Of course I seemed upset! I needed to look worked up enough that it wouldn’t be strange if I was gone for more than a few minutes.”

Eve’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not kidding you. You really think I care if you were still fucking your husband?” She feigns a silent sob. “Boo hoo, you slept with Nico. Christ, you could rawdog on top of a moving vehicle, it’s no skin off my back."

“Clearly in some way it is, though.”

“I was faking it to get in here.”

“So you’re completely fine with it.”

“Oh, so you were being serious?” She keeps looking through the desk, still not finding anything worthwhile. “You do feel guilt for sleeping with him?”

“I don’t know.” Eve is watching her, looking as useless as she likely feels. “Can I help?”

“You can help by going back in there and making sure she doesn’t realize--”

The door opens, Dr. Baarsma staring at them in confusion. “What are you...what’s going on here?”

Villanelle straightens up, dropping the papers back onto the desk. “So sorry,” she says, smiling widely. “I couldn’t find the toilet, and then Eva came in to check on me, and of course we started arguing about our sex life--”

But Dr. Baarsma’s knuckles are white on the doorknob, and her eyes are wide with something more than a misunderstanding. “No, you’re going through my husband’s things.” She looks between the two of them, realization unmistakably dawning. “Oh god.”

She runs out of the room, and Villanelle pushes past Eve to follow her, though the door is slammed on her left hand, probably breaking a finger or two. “Fuck,” she grunts, yanking it open, racing down the hall to find Lore Baarsma standing in her children’s bedroom, a tiny pistol in her hands. She is trembling.

“I know who you are,” she says, her voice weak. “You’re the one he went to kill.”

Villanelle nods, a question answered. “Oh, so you’re in on it.”

“We didn’t have a choice.”

“Life is full of choices, Dr. Baarsma. I’m sure you tell your patients that all the time.” She slowly reaches inside her jacket for the Glock 26 strapped to the left side of her chest. “If you put the gun down, neither of us has to make a very difficult choice.”

The gun shakes as Lore aims it at her, tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to do this but I have to, I have to do it. I’m sorry.”

“The safety is on,” Eve says, suddenly at Villanelle’s shoulder. “So you’re not going to do anything even if you have to.”

Villanelle gives her a look. “Why would you tell her that? We had a clear advantage.”

“Because she isn’t going to shoot us.” Eve steps forward, carefully taking the gun from Lore’s trembling hands, putting it in her pocket. “It’s okay,” she whispers, stroking the side of the sobbing woman’s face. “We can talk, okay? We can talk.”

The woman nods, her face a mess of streaking mascara and wobbling chin, her lips sucked into her mouth. She lets Eve lead her back into the receiving room, setting her down on the couch with her hand clasped in hers. Villanelle sighs, taking her hand off her gun and following them. Eve looks over her shoulder, mouths “it’s okay”, smiles a little.

She can’t help it. She smiles back. She’s frustrated and hot with the rush of a potential kill but oh god, she smiles back.

  
  
  
  
  


 

“Pitter was in the military. Korps Commandotroepen. It was before he was a schoolteacher, before we met.” Lore sniffs, wiping at her eyes. “Two weeks ago, our twins were picked up from school by someone who said he was their uncle. Then we got the message. They said if Pitter didn’t go to Paris and take out this target, they’d kill our children. If we went to the police, if we said anything was out of order, they’d send us their heads.”

Eve leans forward, her hand on Lore’s knee. “Do you have any idea who these people might be?”

“I don’t know. Pitter was in Bosnia in the nineties, but...he never talks about his time with the KCT, he wants to put that part of his life behind him. He changed his name when he came back, just before he met me. He's always been open about that, he's never hidden the fact that he wanted a new identity, and he always said it was because he wanted a fresh start. I...I haven't ever questioned it. Maybe I should have. I thought it was possible that he made enemies there, but why they would come back now, I don’t know.”

“So Pitter went to Paris.”

“Yes, about a week ago. He texted me that he’d gotten there, that he’d found Blackbird and that he was ready to go in. That was the last I heard.” She glances at Eve. “You’re Blackbird, aren’t you?”

Eve nods. “I think so.”

Villanelle has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “But it’s probably me. I’m the one with the less savory background.”

Lore sniffs again. “But her hair--”

Eve gestures to Lore, giving Villanelle a look. “You heard her.” 

“Neither one of you is experienced in target names, so it’s the blind confirming the blind’s bias.”

“Is Pitter…” Lore looks between them, her face falling. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Eve squeezes the woman’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

She lets out another choked sob that evolves into a low animalistic moan, sliding from the couch onto the floor, nearly taking Eve with her. Villanelle observes this display without much interest, being typical of this sort of reaction, but Eve’s eyes are wet and she’s running her hand along the other woman’s back, as if this could possibly count for consolation. 

A few minutes of wordless crying, and the woman flattens her hands on the floor, looks up at Villanelle. “I knew he was dead. He told me never to text him first, that he would message me when it was over. And then I didn’t hear back, and I didn’t hear back, and I just knew…” She groans again as if in pain. “I can’t lose all of them. I can’t lose Pitter and the children.”

“You won’t,” Eve says, and it’s exactly what Villanelle did not want to hear, but was sure she would anyway. “We can get your kids back. If you can give us everything you’ve received from these people, any clues you possibly have, we can find them and bring them back.”

The woman sniffs. “You can’t promise me that.”

“Yes, we can.” Eve nods with far too much conviction. Villanelle has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “We promise you.”

“Uh, Eve?” Villanelle gives her a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Could I talk to you outside for a minute?”

Lore blinks, as if coming to. “Eve?”

“Oh,” Eve says, gesturing at herself. “My real name is Eve. This is Villanelle.”

The woman looks up at them, squinting, her face a soaked mess of agony. “That’s...that’s a kind of poem, isn’t it?”

  
  
  
  
  


 

“You can’t just tell someone you’re going to save her kids, Eve.”

“We owe her.”

Villanelle runs her tongue inside her mouth, trying to contain her exasperation. “How is that?”

“We killed her husband, Villanelle! Because of us, he’s dead.”

“No, because of some shady organization that hired her husband, he is now dead. We did what we had to do to not also be dead. This is one hundred percent not our responsibility.”

“So you’re just going to let those kids die.”

“Oh, they’re probably already dead.”

Eve makes a noise in her throat. “No.”

“I mean, he failed. We’re alive. They’re watching this woman, right, to make sure she doesn’t report them or do anything rash? Well, Blackbird just waltzed in the house, they’re definitely sure he did not do what he was told, so chances are, those kids are long gone.”

“Oh god.”

“See? You get it. So let’s borrow her keys, get in her car, and start clearing out before they call in another hit.”

“This is what we came here for, right? To find out why?”

“And it’s a dead end. Emphasis on dead. There are other tendrils to this thing, so we just pick another one and follow it.”

“I’m not doing that.” Eve crosses her arms. “I mean it, I’m not leaving this woman and her children to get executed.”

“Well, the kids are like…” She thinks about it for a minute. “Eighty-five percent chance already executed. And she’s a dead woman walking, honestly.”

“Only if we leave her vulnerable and don’t protect her.”

“You mean if  _ I _ protect her.” She gives her a look. “I say this with all the respect in the world but if they show up with a bunch of thugs trained to kill people, how long do you expect to last? Two minutes, maybe three? Five if you find a decent hiding spot.”

Eve frowns, her brow furrowed, and then reaches for the door to go back inside the house. Villanelle grabs her arm, holds her there. Eve pulls away. “Come on, Villanelle.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t make me choose, Eve.”

“Choose what?”

“Between you and what you want.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

The door opens, Lore Baarsma looking slightly more together than before, though she’s still bearing the signs of tragedy. Her iPhone is in her hand, and she’s looking at Eve.

“It’s them,” she says. “The ones who took the twins.”

Eve freezes. “What do they want?”

“They said they want to speak to Blackbird.”

Villanelle sighs, reaching for the phone. “Alright, let’s see what these idiots want to--” but Lore shakes her head, holding it closer to her chest.

“Not you,” she says. She nods at Eve. “She’s Blackbird.”

“Did they say that, or did you just infer it?”

“They said the woman with black hair.”

Eve gives Villanelle the most intense ‘I told you so’ look Villanelle has ever received in her life, and then takes the phone, puts it on speaker. A voice processed through a modulator is breathing there.

“It’s me,” Eve says, her voice only wavering for a second before steadying itself. “Blackbird. You said you wanted to talk to me.”

The modulated voice laughs. “Blackbird. You have made our jobs very easy.”

“Have I?”

“We have the children. They are still alive.” Through the modulator, the sound of the children crying and calling for their mother is even more horrifying. “We will exchange them for you and your companion.”

“Okay,” Eve says, looking at Villanelle, mouthing ‘What should I do?’. Villanelle nods at her, mouths ‘keep going’. “I can...we can do that.”

“Good. We will send the coordinates to this phone. Come alone and unarmed. If you are not alone and unarmed, we will behead the children and you can help us put them together when you get here. So the mother can bury them sewn back up.”

Lore lets out a choked gasp, and Eve reaches over with her free hand, squeezes the woman’s shoulder. “It won’t come to that, I promise. We’ll be there, exactly as you say.”

“Good. Be there tomorrow at noon.”

“Tomorrow?” Eve looks at Villanelle again, confused. “You don’t want us to come right now?”

“We aren’t ready for you here, but we will be.”

“What are you getting ready?”

“It’s a surprise. Someone who isn’t here now will want to be here when you arrive. We wouldn’t want to get started without them.”

“Okay,” Eve says. “Okay, we’re coming. Just like you want us. You won’t hurt the children, right?”

“They remain unharmed.”

“And they’ll stay that way, because we’ll be there tomorrow. At noon.”

“Thank you, Blackbird. Have a nice night.” And the call terminates. Eve hands the phone back to Lore, then looks at Villanelle.

“Holy shit.”

Villanelle shrugs, picking at her teeth. “Well, now we have a plan. Whether we wanted one or not.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

Lore offers to drive them back to their cottage. She has reapplied her makeup, looking slightly less shattered, though still a far cry from the put-together woman who first greeted them today and then analyzed their relationship for roughly forty minutes.

“I...don’t quite know how I’m going to sleep tonight. Not that I have slept much since they took the children.”

Eve is sitting next to her in the passenger’s seat, and she gives her a sympathetic smile. “That’s understandable.”

“I suppose I should thank you both ahead of time.”

Villanelle snorts quietly from the back. “I mean, you could always wait until we’ve finished and not died.”

Eve shoots her a look. “It’s the least we can do.”

“You could just take off and save yourselves. You could leave my children to die.” Lore looks over at Eve, sniffing. “How do I know you won’t do that?”

“Because we’ll all die if we do that.” Villanelle says before Eve can reply, her legs crossed as well as her arms. “They know where we are now. If we don’t go forward with the exchange, we’re dead anyway. We don’t have a choice.”

“And this is the right thing to do,” Eve adds. “We want your kids alive as much as you do.”

“You’re kind, I can tell you are kind,” Lore says. “I never asked in the session. How long have you two been together?”

“Oh, we’re not…” Eve is blushing, the first time today despite so many moments to be flustered. Villanelle grins to herself at the realization. “I mean, we’re not actually together.”

“Really?” Lore’s eyebrow raises in the rearview mirror. “I would have thought you’d at least--”

“It’s happened,” Villanelle offers from the backseat. “What you think has happened, yeah. It’s basically happened.”

“I do this for a living,” Lore says. “I read couples, I read their problems and their strengths from subtle cues, but cues nonetheless.” She looks over at Eve again. “You’re a couple.”

Eve continues to be beet red. “We’re not, really. We’ve, uh...there are some elements of a relationship present but we are not actually in a relationship.”

Lore seems skeptical. “If you say so.”

Eve smiles. “I do.”

“I’ve been inside her,” Villanelle says, drops it into the conversation oh so casually despite knowing exactly what it will do to the situation. She sees the slight wince of Eve’s shoulders, smirks. “Did you get that from the subtle cues? That my hand has been in her before? That our bodies have been physically connected as…” She gives her eyebrows a dramatic waggle. “One?”

Eve rolls down the window. “I’m a bit carsick,” she says. 

Lore looks at her through the mirror. “I did, yes.”

“Really? What are the cues, then? I’d love to learn how you tell that people have fucked. It’s very useful information to have.”

“It’s not magic. There’s literature on the psychology behind reading physical gestures and things like changes in tone, glances, all that.” 

“Fascinating stuff. Could you tell from the cues how many fingers it was?”

“It’s this one,” Eve says, hand going up into the air. “This is the house, we’re here. This is it. Time to get out now.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

Lore agrees to stay inside her home, locked and loaded, though Villanelle is quite sure no one is going to bother her tonight. She’s also sure no one is going to bother the two of them, but Eve has put a carving knife on the table next to her bed, and is checking the locks throughout the house. Villanelle watches her from the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine, one eyebrow raised.

“They’re too lazy,” Villanelle says as Eve looks under the couch for who knows what. “They won’t come out here and finish us off tonight. They want us to come to them.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because they sent someone else to do their dirty work the first time. And they won’t drop off the kids themselves - they’re making us come pick them up like a fucking daycare.” She sighs, smacks her lips. “This merlot was in the cabinet, and it’s really not bad.”

“How can you be so calm right now?”

Villanelle shrugs. “I don’t have control over the situation, thus any energy expelled to worry or be anxious is wasted energy.”

Eve pauses in front of her, her hair a wild mess. “You’re serious.”

She yawns, hands her the glass of wine. “Yes, obviously.”

“It would take me years of therapy to get to that point. I assume you just naturally are that way.”

“Psychopath,” Villanelle says, tapping her temple. 

Eve takes a deep gulp of the wine, tilting her chin back. A bead of red remains on the corner of her mouth; Villanelle reaches forward and wipes it away with her thumb. Eve trembles slightly. “Are you really a psychopath?"

“You tell me, Eve. Do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much of you is some carefully crafted persona to protect your career, or get what you want from whoever you want it from.”

Villanelle snorts. “I’m so much more diabolical in your fantasies, aren’t I? Is that what you want? A Bond villain to tear you open like the skin off a hare?”

Eve takes down more of the wine. “I thought you’d be more violent.”

“When?”

“When we fucked.”

“We hardly fucked, Eve.”

“I know.” She swallows. “So I suppose I can’t judge.”

Villanelle moves forward, backs her up towards the sink with her knee pushing Eve’s legs apart. She feels the heat of her through her jeans. “I can be violent,” she says, tilting forward so her mouth is closer to her ear. She feels Eve’s breath quicken against her neck. “But for some reason, you inspire a very frustrating tenderness in me.”

“Should I be flattered?”

And Villanelle steps away, puts the distance between them again, leaning against the table with her hands behind her and a smirk on her face. She sees the sudden rise of Eve’s chest, her mouth slightly open, the wine shaking slightly in her hand. “Perhaps,” Villanelle says. “Have you called Nico yet?”

Eve’s tongue runs the length of her teeth, a half-challenge. “No.”

“You ought to check in. I’m sure he’s worried.”

“He isn’t.”

“Because he trusts you so very much.”

“Yes,” Eve says, staring her down. “He does.”

“Despite the fact you give him no reason to trust you.”

“Don’t push it.” Eve says, the wine at her lips again. “Don’t.”

“What?” Villanelle shrugs, gives her a crooked grin. “There’s no car here for you to threaten to jump out of, Eve.”

“Is that a threat?” Eve almost starts to laugh. “Am I cornered?”

“You’re the one with all the knives under your pillows. I think given our history I should be a bit worried about the danger I’m in.”

“I have no reason to stab you.”

“So you had a reason the first time?”

Eve seems to be relishing this just a little. She finishes the wine, licks the red from her lips. “Loads,” she says, smiling. Villanelle pours more in the glass and takes it back for herself.

“You know I spent all that time recovering trying to come up with the best way to turn the incident into a pick-up line."

“Did you really?” Eve watches her drink. “Settle on anything decent?”

“I think it was something about how I really wanted to be the one penetrating you first.”

Eve snorts. “That’s awful.”

“I didn’t say it was good.”

“It’s not decent either.”

“Clearly I didn’t need it since you got into bed with me regardless.”

Eve pulls the wine from her hands, their fingers touching, their eyes meeting. “Are you calling me easy?”

“Actually, you’re the toughest lay I’ve had in my life. No one else made me work for it like you.” She sighs, rubs the back of her neck. “I’m still working for it.”

“Sex is off the table, though.” Eve gives her a look. “I thought that was clear.”

“Of course,” Villanelle says, hands raised in surrender. “I will do whatever you want.”

“Good.” Eve runs her hand through her hair, still a mess from today, still glorious. “Lore hasn’t sent us the coordinates yet, has she?”

“She will when she gets them. It’s in her best interests. Bailing will only get her children killed.”

“Right.” Eve sets her phone on the table, then the glass of wine. “If I get changed, do you promise not to drink all this wine without me?”

“What are you getting changed into?”

“Nothing suggestive,” she says, giving Villanelle a look. “You wish.”

“I am not disrespecting your boundaries.”

Eve smirks, clearly a bit bolder with the wine and no dinner in her. “Fine. Wish away.”

She steps into the bedroom, the door closing halfway behind her. Villanelle watches the shadow moving in the light, grins to herself as she takes a sip of the merlot, feels the heat rise in her throat to match the heat between her legs.

The phone buzzes. She looks down, anticipating the coordinates from Lore.

Nico:

> _ You changed the fucking locks? How am I supposed to pick up my things if you changed the fucking locks? This is exactly why I’m getting a solicitor. I’m done with your bullshit. Absolutely done. _

Villanelle glances from the phone to the bedroom door, her heart loud enough to hear in her head, the wine held tight in her hand. She flips the phone over, pours herself more merlot.

  
  
  
  
  


 

“Are we going to die tomorrow?”

Villanelle looks up from the television, where she is scrolling through programs to find a film. “I don’t actually know. I think it’s probably fifty-fifty. Why?”

Eve shows her the menu on her phone. “Our options for delivery are pretty limited, and I’m not sure which of these is best for a last meal. How do you feel about ribs?”

Villanelle shrugs. “I always like ribs.” 

“So how do you feel about ribs as our final meal?”

“You’re forgetting breakfast. Our final meal will probably be breakfast.” She smiles, leaning back on the couch. “There,” she says, gesturing at the screen with the remote. “Stalker. Tarkovsky. It’s on in twenty minutes according to the guide, see?”

“What is it?”

“Tarkovsky? Andrei Tarkovsky?” Villanelle raises her eyebrows at her. “I do not love my country like most of my countrymen but we make finer films than anyone else in the world, and that is entirely on Andrei Tarkovsky.”

Eve smiles at her, seeming to have noticed something in the other woman. “So you’re an art historian, a poet, and now a film critic.”

Another woman would blush. Villanelle only sets her jaw when she grins. “I’m not any of them. I just think certain things have value. Some of those things are works of art, or films, or whatever.”

Eve pours the last of the merlot into the glass. “Did you see more wine in the cabinet?” 

Villanelle taps on the drawers next to the television, revealing her earlier discovery of an entire bar. “The note in the reservation said we were welcome to any of it.”

“Is it a good idea to be hungover when you’re entering the lair of your enemy?”

“I’m sure it’s less a lair and more of a shitty apartment in some shitty part of a shitty city. Or a barn or something. These types love barns.” She squats in front of the bar, pulling out premium liquor after premium liquor. “And it doesn’t matter, to answer your question. We’re going to be outnumbered, so force is not our strategy.”

“What  _ is  _ our strategy?”

“Oh, for that, I have to talk to Mother.”

Eve blinks. “You’re still talking to your mother?”

“Mother is not my mother. Though she is probably the healthiest maternal figure I’ve had in my life.” She gives her a warning look. “Before you say anything, I am fully aware of my mommy issues.”

Eve points at herself. “I’m not _ that  _ much older than you.”

“Well,” Villanelle clicks her tongue. “You’re not my age either. Not that I’m complaining. Every bit of you is quite glorious, isn’t it?”

Eve’s cheeks go slightly pink. 

The phone buzzes on the table. Villanelle doesn’t look at it, pointedly avoids it, but Eve picks it up, eyebrows raising, and then shows her screen to her. “The coordinates,” she says, tapping through to the map. “Fuck, it’s an island.” She does an admirable job of attempting pronunciation. “Schiermonnikoog.”

“Probably a barn on an island. Shall we place a bet? Twenty five euro says it’s a barn.”

“Don’t be so morbid.”

“You’re the one ordering our last meal.”

“I mean, we still have to eat tonight.” Eve looks at her, half-joking, half-desperate. “Fine. Thirty euro.”

Villanelle smirks at her. “See? You’re a natural.”

  
  
  
  


 

Villanelle is wiping the remains of sauce from the corners of her mouth, a pile of bones laid out on the table in front of them like the carnage that likely awaits them tomorrow. Onscreen, the credits roll in silence, and Villanelle watches the light flickering across Eve’s face.

“I have to clean my guns tonight,” she says, and Eve looks over at her, starts cleaning up the mess of food and the red-ringed glasses that once held wine and liquor. “Then I’ll sleep. You don’t have to stay up with me. You can go to bed if you’d like.”

“Okay,” Eve says, throwing everything out, filling the sink, wiping down the table. “I...you don’t need any help?”

“There is nothing else we can do to prepare for tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “I am. Get some rest. Goodnight, Eve.”

Eve looks at her, saying nothing for a while, then finally goes to the bedroom and shuts the door. Villanelle does what she always does to prepare for a kill: she readies her arsenal and stops giving a fuck about the outcome. 

But Eve can’t die, she thinks. Whatever happens, she’ll walk out of this tomorrow. Villanelle sees no other alternative.

  
  
  
  
  


 

There is no moon tonight, not with the cloud cover, so the rooms are dark as ever and Villanelle cannot see what’s in front of her when she’s shaken, sitting up on the couch to feel a knee on the cushion. She grabs the knee and applies pressure to the points behind it, hearing a groan as a head falls onto her shoulder. She smells Eve’s perfume, her hair wrapping them both in a frizzy curtain.

“Stop,” Eve hisses, and she does, releasing her and relaxing back onto the couch.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Instinct.”

Eve is looking at her in the dark, her expression still imperceptible. “I can’t sleep.”

“That’s natural.” She cocks her head, even if she can’t see her, even if Eve can’t see her either. “We don’t really know what will happen tomorrow.”

“It’s not tomorrow. That’s not why I can’t sleep.”

She says nothing. Watches the outline of Eve’s hair take shape as her eyes adjust, the angle of her bare shoulders turning grey. 

“Villanelle.”

“Yes, Eve?”

“Villanelle.” Eve says her name again as if it is meant to replace another demand, another invitation. So she leans forward, and whispers back.

“Why did you come here, Eve?”

Eve moves closer, her knee touching Villanelle’s, her hand pressed into the couch next to her thigh. “To get answers.”

“Was I one of the questions?”

Eve is breathing hard, and she puts her mouth next to Villanelle’s ear, and then her lips onto Villanelle’s neck. Villanelle groans, her hand flat on Eve’s chest to push her onto her back on the couch, their positions reversed. “Answer me,” she says, pulling herself away to free Eve’s mouth.

Eve’s voice is more a choke than anything else. “Yes.”

“So what is the answer, Eve?”

“You know what it is.”

Villanelle looks down at her, sees that Eve’s shirt is gone, and she is the kind of woman who would come to her in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, and let her be bare in her presence, and perhaps later eat a fruit and let the juice run down her chin.

“We should continue this conversation in the bedroom,” she says, climbing off her. “If that’s what you want, Eve.”

“I do.”

“Fine,” she says, leading her by hand, every bit of her a bright flame, a burning field, a world turning to ash. “Let’s finish this.”

 

 

 

 

 


	8. painful but also rather pleasant

 

 

 

 

 

If you try too hard to be good, you won’t be any good at all.

She thinks she read that somewhere, maybe an English book, because it seems like a very English sentiment, or maybe a French book, but spoken ironically by a character who is a metaphor for something else, smoking a cigarette that represents something else. She devoured books when she was a teenager because she would collect them in their original forms. Anna used to love when she’d read them in bed, both of them naked, her head in Anna’s lap, sifting through Proust or the like, translating each page into a different language. 

She’d stopped reading after that for a long time. Certain things soured after Anna; certain tastes that they’d passed between their mouths, certain melodies or phrases, a smell she might pass on the street, and books, lots of books. Anna hadn’t any interest in film so Villanelle retreated to film, spending many afternoons between her kills in the dark of a cinema, watching old movies without subtitles, or catching poorly dubbed versions of blockbusters in one city or another. When she laughed, the audience laughed, too. When she sympathized with the characters, everyone in the seats around her sympathized, too. It was one of the only places she could find for herself where her experience aligned with the rest of the world, even briefly. 

But it was a book where she read the phrase, she’s sure of it.  _ If you try too hard to be good, you won’t be good at all. _

She doesn’t know why it comes to her when she’s pulling the sash from Eve’s robe, the other woman breathing raggedly on the bed, splayed as if dropped from a great height. Like the fallen angels that were exiled from heaven with Satan, Villanelle thinks with a wry grin. Yes, that's a very good one. The sash comes clean from the silk robe, and she winds one end around her hand as if covering her knuckles for a fight, crimson under a floral pattern, somewhat fitting of her aesthetic. The silk is cool against her palm. Cooler still against Eve’s skin, flushed with heat.

Villanelle bends low to tie Eve’s wrists with the sash, a well-practiced technique.

“What’s that for?” Eve asks, her voice barely a whisper, half an exhale. Her skin is taut over her ribs as she breathes harder, and Villanelle can count each one, marble white in the strip of sudden moonlight that cuts across the bed just as it slices the canal water beyond. The other end of the sash, Villanelle ties to the headboard, pulling it slowly, deliberately, until it tightens her into place.

“So you don’t get any ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?”

She takes the knife from next to the bed, slides it into the drawer, and closes it with emphasis. “Sharp ones.”

And then slowly, with great precision, the precision of someone who understands how a body works - how the sinews run beneath the outer layer of flesh, the organs that pound and squeeze beneath, the nerve endings that pulse, pulse and pulse harder, the places where blood and bile and all other fluids flow and flood - the precision required to extract a life rather than simply take it, Villanelle makes her way down Eve’s body, starting with her neck, using only her mouth.

 

 

 

 

  
  
An hour later, she is panting, staring up at the plain white ceiling of the house’s only bedroom. Her mouth ringed with a certain tang, her tongue playing at the place where her lips meet to taste the saltiness of sex. The woman next to her is spread across the bed, hands still bound together, eyes covered with a tied scrap of torn fabric that Villanelle cut unceremoniously from her own skirt. Eve’s hair pushes against the knot of satin, billowing out each side. It’s almost erotic, the way it refuses to be contained, overflowing as it does. Villanelle looks at it but does not touch, watches instead the opening and closing of Eve’s mouth, the line of saliva that forms between her lips and stretches before breaking, Eve’s breath so loud that it seems to be the only noise in the universe.

“Shit,” Eve sighs.  

Villanelle splays her fingers in front of her, watching the web form between them. “Mmhmm,” she hums, drumming each tip of her finger against her thumb. She cracks her knuckles, sees Eve turn at the noise.

“How did you do that?”

Villanelle smirks, though Eve cannot see it. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

Villanelle rolls onto her side, allows herself to reach over and gently stroke the line of Eve’s cheekbones, her jaw, the plane of her nose. Eve shivers at the touch, her mouth holding a silent ‘oh.’

“Can I kiss you?” Villanelle asks, her voice a low whisper, always asking her for permission, and she always sees Eve’s surprise when she does that, as if she expected to be seized and ravished instead. Like Villanelle is a beast, when she is really more of a dog, still with bared teeth, still with the potential to go feral, but lowdown for now, sulking for the right hand.

“I don’t think you have to ask after everything you just did to me.”

“I do, though,” Villanelle says, because they have not kissed yet tonight. “It’s different.”

Eve seems to consider this, though Villanelle can’t see her eyes covered as they are under the tied strip of satin. But the thoughtfulness is evident in her mouth, the strain atop her cheeks, the crease forming in her forehead. Villanelle is secretly loving this; the opportunity to observe Eve when she does not know she is being observed, studied up close without Eve’s tendency to shrink in embarrassment when Villanelle watches for too long.

“Okay,” Eve finally says. “I don’t know if that will change things. I guess it will.” Her chin tilts up in the direction of Villanelle’s breath. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Villanelle climbs on top of her, hair falling out of her bun, quiet and serious before she drops her head to meet her lips. Kisses her hard, intensely, but without teeth, with only the most sincere probe of tongue, and only before she breaks away.

“Would you like to be untied?” she asks, and Eve nods.

“Have I earned that?”

“I think so.” Villanelle sits just above her chest as she unties the sash from the headboard, carefully unwinds it from Eve’s wrists. “By now, I’m sure you’ve realized you’ll have a much better time if you don’t stab me.”

“Are we going to have to do this every time?” Eve pulls her wrists onto her chest, rubbing each one with her fingers where the imprint of knots remain in her skin.

“It’s for my safety,” Villanelle says, her voice winking as much as her eye. Eve looks at her with a challenging half-smile, even if she cannot see her yet.

“It’s not.”

“Do you really mind?”

“No,” Eve says. “I don’t mind at all.”

“I thought as much.” She notices that Eve still hasn’t pulled the tie from over her eyes, like she’s waiting for Villanelle to do it, so she does, hooks her fingers under the fabric and pulls up and over her head. Stares into Eve’s eyes, their sudden intensity like stepping into the sunlight after a day in the dark.

“Hi,” Eve says.

“Hello.”

“You don’t want to sleep now, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good.” Eve says, and pulls her back down onto her. “Because I want to try something.”

“What kind of something?”

“Could you sort of...take me over the side of the bed?”

“I could, yes.”

"Could you choke me a little?"

"A little, sure."

“Could you leave a mark?”

Her finger skirts the red imprint on Eve’s collarbone. “I already have.”

“Perfect.” She clamps her teeth onto Villanelle’s earlobe. “Leave more.”

 

 

 

 

 

When Villanelle catches her breath again, she is now on the floor, and the sheets have been pulled down with her, balled up somewhere near the corner of the room. Eve leans against the bed where she was previously bent over, her legs still shaking where they’ve collapsed under her. Villanelle stares at her from where she’s positioned, and Eve stares back. They are silent, breathing hard, their eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“I liked that,” Eve says. “No one’s ever pulled my hair like that before.”

Villanelle snorts, propping herself up on her elbows. Christ, she’s exhausted, and simultaneously the most awake she’s ever been. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t usually like it. Men tend to tug like they’re trying to rip my scalp off. You sort of…” She gestures vaguely, a fist moving through the air. “It was more like guidance, like you were restraining me. You know?”

Villanelle licks her lips, now stickier, something drying just under her nose. “Restraint is kind of the theme tonight.”

Eve’s elbows are still red from where they took all her weight as she was pressed into the mattress. Villanelle can see them from here, looking slightly raw. She wants to kiss them. Eve catches her glance, cocks her head. “You know you don’t have to hold back for me.”

“Sure.” Does she really have to say it? She crawls forward, settles next to Eve on the floor, her back against the bed beside her. “It’s just different with you.”

“How so?”

“I just want to be…” Villanelle knows Eve is watching her, can feel her gaze like a laser on her cheek, but she looks at the floor. “I don’t know. I haven’t fucked like this in...well, I don’t think I’ve ever fucked like this.”

Unspoken is some sort of assumption that involves Anna. She can feel the word already on Eve’s tongue, and she looks up in time to see Eve swallow it down.

Some day, if this is still an issue, she’s going to remind Eve of her age. Of power dynamics and isolation and desire and manipulation. She knows Eve has thought of her for a long time as something of a caricature, and she hasn’t minded because Villanelle enjoys living as a caricature, or at least she did up until about a year ago. The Villanelle that Eve first became aware of during that time could never be taken advantage of because she could never have been just a girl, a girl without friends, without an outlet for her impulses, who saw a hand extended and jumped to grab it in her mouth, who felt things so strongly that it would have been easy to portray her as the aggressor with her teeth around innocent flesh. But not today, Villanelle thinks. Let Eve come to that conclusion on her own. Let her see her for what she is, and realize her own error in judgment.

It’s strange how they don’t touch now. Or maybe it isn’t strange at all. Villanelle keeps an inch between them, even if part of Eve is now drying on her hand and around her mouth, a streak of her across her face, down her chin and across her collarbone, and ground with great purpose into the sharp angle of her pubic bone where Villanelle imagines she’ll never quite wash her off.

She holds up a single finger, carefully moves it towards Eve’s bare knee. Touches it lightly, waiting.

“There’s still a handful of hours left until sunrise.”

Eve’s smiling to herself. “I’m not tired,” she says. “Unless you are.”

Villanelle shows her the swollen base of her left ring finger, stiff and continually pounding with soreness, though she has chosen to ignore it tonight. “Did you know I broke my finger earlier today?”

Eve starts, laughing. “The door…” she says, realizing, and then looks impressed. “And you’re still in commission.”

“I’ve been distracted, and it’s a worthy cause.”

Eve runs her own hands through her hair, chuckles to herself, stares at the dark lawn and canal beyond the window. “I can’t believe we actually did this.”

“Well, we sort of did it before, that time we were interrupted.”

“Yeah, but I mean…” Eve gives her a look. “This was...this was something else.”

“I told you,” and maybe she’s embarrassed now or something, if Villanelle can feel that way. She doesn’t know if she can or not. “It’s different with you.”

“I know. It really is.” Eve sighs, hand still buried in her hair. “Fuck. It’s a lot.”

“But it’s okay?”

“Yeah, it’s more than okay.” She looks exasperated for a minute. “Well, I guess this means I’m definitely not straight.”

“Congratulations. We’ll throw you a coming out party.”

“Can you just fuck me again instead?”

Villanelle stands, wrapping her hand around the majority of Eve’s hair, and tugs gently upward, getting the woman back on her feet. “Or I could do that, sure.”

With the heel of her hand pressed into the base of Eve’s back, she pushes her back down into the bed, hearing the groan that turns into a gasp, Eve’s legs spreading, and Villanelle disappearing back into another place, a place where only the two of them exist, and nothing awaits them in the daylight.

 

 

 

 

 

When Villanelle wakes up, she is freezing. That’s because the blankets all found their way onto the floor, and she is naked, positioned crookedly on her front, with Eve’s arm slung over her back. Eve snores lightly, as if she has a stuffy nose, her half-open mouth the only part of her face visible where her hair has fallen in the way. Villanelle sits up, stretches, steps onto the floor and pulls her underwear back on. She pads quietly into the other room, fishing her silk bomber out of the couch, pulling it on to cover her nipples. Walks back into the bedroom, Eve undisturbed by her movement and still sleeping deeply, and goes to stand at the window where the light is grey and dim and the birds are feeding along the canal, reeds bending and shifting and swaying like a rave.

Eve groans in her sleep, shifting around as her arm finds the pillow to spoon. Villanelle watches her quietly, her mind uncharacteristically blank, calm, collected, and walks into the kitchen to make coffee.

In a few hours, she’ll be covered in blood, her face stained red, her jaw aching from a punch that nearly dislocated it, and she’ll barely be able to remember that the day had started this way, a slice of peace, a neat little angle of something Villanelle perhaps imagined for herself in some small selfish human part of her. She’ll be swinging a field hockey stick at the face of a man about a foot taller than her, aiming for the place where his skull will crack and send some shards to some unwelcome places, and in her mind, a little part of her will still be here in this kitchen, ducking down to find filters in the cupboards, to set the Melitta up and smell the grounds from their bag.

For now, she’s humming to herself, ABBA, and sucking her fingertip to savor the taste that remains. 

 

 

 

 

 

Lore Baarsma comes to the house at exactly seven, her hands shaking when Villanelle opens the door and takes the car keys from her, gives her an unceremonious nod to indicate where in the house she can sit down. It has already been decided that they’ll drive there in her car rather than involve a taxi, satisfying as it might be to get their previous taxi driver into a shootout while he tries to get in their pants. Lore appears to still be in her pajamas; Villanelle is aware that incredible amounts of sadness or stress can distract a normal person from the barest necessities that society asks of them. 

Eve comes out of the bedroom, dressed, unaware Villanelle has already spoken with Mother. Eve takes a minute to offer Lore some reassuring words, some basic courtesies, while Villanelle cleans her teeth with a toothpick over the sink, observes a bird pulling a fish from the water. Lore is meant to wait for them at this cottage until they return with the twins. Villanelle feels a gigantic “if” in that sentence but says nothing.

The car is a bright yellow Renault Clio, not exactly the assault vehicle she had in mind, but it will do. She enters the GPS coordinates Mother sent her, and gives Lore a wave where she stands in the window of the cottage, her arms wrapped around her body like a shawl.

Eve looks at the screen and does a double take. “Uh, that’s not where they said they’d be.”

“I know,” Villanelle says. “I have to make a pickup first.”

“A pickup?”

“Mother had a package delivered for me. It should be very helpful to us.”

“Are you ever going to explain who this Mother person is?”

“I don’t think so.” Villanelle fishes around in the car as she drives until she finds a stick of chewing gum. Folds it on her tongue. Cinnamon, alas. “I’ll tell you that she’s a friend.”

“Who you call Mother.”

“She cared for me like a mother, and she’s old enough to be my mother.”

Eve is watching her expectantly, she knows this. When Villanelle indicated Mother’s age, she know that Eve’s eyebrow twitched, her tongue skirting her bottom lip. “Huh.” 

“It is nothing like that, I promise.” She can’t help but smirk. “Don’t be jealous, Eve.”

“I’m not.” Eve fiddles with the door locks as Villanelle makes a turn, perhaps a minor reminder of the last time they were in a car like this together. “You’re just being vague.”

“Do you remember when you almost killed me? Well, Mother sewed me back up. Saved my life after you had me nearly bleeding out in a Parisian alley.” She sighs. “She’s a big fan of yours, for the record.”

“That sounds almost sinister.”

“It’s not. She’s rooting for this.” She lifts a hand off the wheel to gesture in the air between them. “Us, whatever we’re doing. It was her idea to invite you here.”

“So you didn’t want me to come.”

She smacks the gum. “I wanted to protect you. And honestly, I didn’t think you’d come.”

“But I did.”

“Yes, you did. A whole load of times, didn’t you?”

Eve’s laugh is strange, clipped. “Right.”

There’s a silence, Villanelle watching the road, Eve watching Villanelle, no one saying a word. Villanelle turns on the radio, but Eve turns it off.

“Are we going to talk about last night?” she asks. 

Villanelle’s mouth is dry. “What would you like to say about it, Eve?”

“I mean, it happened.”

She nods, mouth angling into a crooked smirk. “It did.”

“It was probably always going to happen.”

“I’d agree with that, yes.”

“We were always eventually going to need to get that out of our systems.”

And this statement gives Villanelle pause. She blinks, ignores the GPS for a moment so that it has to reroute, stubbornly repeating a turn over and over again. She can feel Eve’s eyes on her.

“Okay,” she says. Waits for Eve to fill in the rest of that gap.

“How do you feel about it?”

Villanelle makes the turn, swallowing some new emotion down. “I feel fine about it,” she lies, as if fine could possibly encompass all of it. As if Eve can’t fucking see that.

“Just fine?”

She accelerates slightly in spite of herself. “What are you fishing for, Eve? What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. I feel like we need to process this or something.”

“God,” Villanelle groans, rubbing her temple. “You  _ are _ a fucking lesbian.”

“No, I’m definitely still attracted to--”

“It’s a joke. I know.” Villanelle looks over at her quickly, just a glance. “Look, maybe it’s better we don’t delve into the meanings and repercussions of our evening of elaborate sex acts before we walk into certain death, okay? I don’t know if now is the best time.”

“Fine.” Eve crosses her arms across her chest. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“If we survive.”

“You  _ know _ we’re going to survive.”

“I never know if I’m going to survive anything, Eve. That’s part of my job. That is the basic mindset of the whole thing.”

Perhaps she was too sharp with her tone there. Eve swings her head to look out the window, away from the driver. Villanelle turns on the radio, and Eve does not stop her this time, letting her spin the dial until she finds something classical, Saint-Saens’ famous organ symphony.

When someone finally speaks, it’s Eve, furrowing her brow and staring at Villanelle. “This was in that movie,” she says. “The one about the pig.”

“Babe.” Villanelle nods.

Eve gives her a look. “That does not strike me as a ‘you’ film.”

“I watch all kinds of things.”

“What did the pig do again?”

Villanelle rolls her tongue along the inside of her mouth. “He herded sheep.”

“I don’t think that was this movie.”

“It was. He herded sheep at competitions.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” Eve pauses, appears to be contemplating all this, and then lets out a sigh of clear frustration, her voice raising. “So you’ll debate the pig movie but you don’t want to talk about the fact we fucked for six very intense hours last night?”

So Villanelle raises her voice right back. “You said you were getting it out of your system. That’s not what  _ I _ was doing. You were not something I had to check off my bucket list.” She holds up a finger. “Also The Bucket List is a movie I’ve seen, a garbage movie, because yes, Eve, I don’t just sit around all day rubbing my palms together and laughing maniacally. I watch garbage movies and I enjoy them.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“I didn’t word it right. It was a poor choice of words.”

“So what would have been a better way to phrase it?”

“I don’t know.” Eve shakes her head, sighing. “That it was inevitable. Not that it was something I had to get out of my system. I am not that kind of forty-something woman, this is not that kind of experiment."

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I know you are, like…” Villanelle only raises an eyebrow here. “Extremely aroused by me.”

Eve’s cheeks go red. “So what did you think I meant, then?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Villanelle groans, nearly missing another direction from the GPS. “Forget I got cranky and brought it up.” 

“I mean, we can--”

“No.” She shakes her head. “We’ve got more important things to think about.”

“Fine,” Eve says, her voice quiet, and she moves her hand closer to Villanelle’s leg, though not close enough. “I’m sorry I said it like that.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do when I fuck up.”

“You didn’t fuck up.”

“It seems like I did.”

“If you feel how you feel, you don’t have to apologize for feeling that way.”

“That’s a tongue twister.”

“It sure is.”

Eve pauses, watches her, studies her, the heat of her gaze on Villanelle’s face like a laser to her flesh. Villanelle shrugs it off, and Eve shakes her head. “I’m still sorry.”

“Alright, Eve. You’re sorry.”

“But obviously not sorry it happened.”

Villanelle chews on that for a while, lets the quiet take back over, listens to the organ climax like a woman, pushed over the edge, her hair in her face.

 

 

 

 

 

They stop where the coordinates tell them to stop, Villanelle scanning the scenery until she spots the ruined old brick cottage a few paces from the road, hidden in the greenery. Its roof in the Old Dutch style collapsed in on itself, the brick crumbling away in places. Mother had described it accurately on the phone.

“There,” she says, and gets out of the car. Leaning against the cottage wall is a brand new field hockey stick, wrapped with a bright pink bow. A lockbox sits under it, and she rattles it to hear the familiar sound of ammo cases, likely a few other tools, certainly the substances she expected her to provide. She grins at the envelope sitting on top of it, ‘Oksana’ written in lovely cursive.

Inside, Mother’s explanation for what she’s left for her. Villanelle scowls a bit at one sentence -  _ I’ve got a friend who had no problem putting aside a few things to be in the area, and you’ll be pleased to know she’s an outstanding marksman and loves to stretch her legs as a retired sniper. _ Mother knows she likes to work alone, but Mother also likes to push Villanelle’s boundaries, so here they are.

Eve rolls down the window. “Is that a field hockey stick?”

Villanelle smirks, raising it up. “It sure is. Did you know field hockey is the second most popular sport in The Netherlands?”

“I did not.”

“According to Mother’s card, she’s left it in case I want to, and I quote,  _ have a bit of fun _ .”

She can hear the sarcasm in Eve’s voice. “I don’t think we’ll have time for a match.”

“Indeed we will not,” Villanelle says, stomping through the tall grass to get back to the car. “But I’ll make time to bash someone’s cranium in with it.”

Back in the car, she opens the lockbox, pulls out the usual suspects, handing the bottles of pills to Eve. Eve blinks at them.

“Is this mine?”

“Cyanide. If you’re in a situation where you’d prefer to die fast rather than slowly and painfully, you’ll be grateful for those.” She points to a different bottle. “Keep this other one here in your sleeve, somewhere you can get to it quickly. If you think you’re about to be tortured chemically, swallow that, it should dull the effects of most things they inject you with.”

Eve lifts the epinephrine injection, still capped, out of the box. “Do you anticipate a lot of bees today?”

“That’s if you need the adrenaline to get yourself out of a bad place. If you feel like you’ve been drugged but you still need to run, it’ll help. It won’t feel good, but it will keep you moving.”

Eve smirks at her. “I know. I was only kidding.” She pockets a cyanide. “L-pill,” she says, and then pulls out the others, sliding the epipen into the back of her jeans. “I have more than a healthy interest in this kind of thing.” 

“Right.” Villanelle regards her, the particular angle of her smile, and cocks her head. “Well, healthy or unhealthy interest, you still have to be safe.”

“You said there was a strategy.”

“Mother indicated she would help with that.” She hands her the card, sees Eve smirk at the Alpine scene on the front. “Her solution is to position a sniper in range.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s more effective than you think.”

“But what will we do? I mean, should we plan ahead of time to pretend to turn on each other, or is there some kind of scheme we could develop to distract them before we --”

“Eve.” She pats her hand. “No.”

“Don’t be patronizing.”

“Never.”

“But we can’t go in this blind.”

“Not blind. Just accommodating. 90% of the time, you take what they planned on giving you, you endure it for a bit, and then you slam them between the eyes when they think you’ve given up. These aren’t normal marks. These people are professional, they have some level of organization. They are assuming we will try to deceive them. You’ve got to trust me, alright?”

“But…” Eve closes the lockbox almost regretfully, setting her hand protectively over it. “Fine.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Eve says, and Villanelle believes her.

 

 

 

 

 

The ferry groans along, both of them sitting still as it takes them to the island, both of them seeming to be in very different places. Villanelle is silent, almost bored, but Eve is practically vibrating in her seat.

“Wait a second.” Villanelle looks over at her, the hum and thrum of her, Eve’s fingers drumming insistently on the lockbox. “You’re really into this.”

Eve freezes. “What?”

“Look at you,” she says. “I can literally taste the anticipation rolling off you like a fucking pheromone. You’re  _ excited _ for this. You can’t wait to get there and do whatever dangerous shit you think is about to happen.”

Eve says nothing, slouching in her seat like a teenager. Gnawing her bottom lip, so Villanelle knows she has struck a nerve.

Villanelle whistles. “I’m right, aren’t I? Wow.”

“No,” Eve says, though it’s more a grunt than anything.

“All that ‘oh, we have to save the kids because it’s the right thing, oh Lore, let me rub your back and go get your kids back because it’s so moral and ethical of me’ shit. You don’t actually care about saving a couple kids. You really just wanted to roll up and pull a James Bond.”

“First of all, I’m not a monster, I do think we should save these children. I think that’s a bare minimum thing we should try to do.”

“Even so, you’re psyched to plug a bad guy full of bullets, aren’t you?”

Eve gives her a smart look. “We haven’t got a gun, Villanelle.”

“It’s in the back. I’m leaving it near the car when we get out.” She cocks her head. “So you can play Super Spy later if you really feel like it.”

“Please.” Eve rolls her eyes, only looking slightly embarrassed now. “Like this isn’t how you feel about this stuff.”

“It’s not.” She sees Eve’s disbelieving smirk, hears her chuckle in response. Villanelle shakes her head, very serious. “I mean it.”

“I’m just ready for answers, that’s all.”

Villanelle snorts. “And you think you’ll get them today.”

“I’d assume as much.”

“Sorry to tell you, but they don’t typically stand there and monologue their whole evil plan while a minion ties you up or whatever.”

Eve seems temporarily insulted. “I know that. I’m just saying this might fill in some gaps. Maybe some closure.”

“It’ll be very painful closure.”

“And we’ll save those kids.”

“We might do that, yes. We’re going to have to kill or incapacitate a gaggle of people to do that, but it might happen, yes.”

“And you’re not even slightly confident about that?”

“I’m slightly confident, and not a slight bit excited.”

Eve gives her a look. “Come on.”

“This is my job. I don’t do this because I get off on it.”

“Right, but it wouldn’t be your job if it didn’t fulfill you somehow.”

“It’s my job because I can’t do anything else.” She looks at her, not sure if she should continue, but Eve is watching her, waiting, giving her this moment to speak. So she does. “Not because I am incapable of anything else. I mean, I’d be shit working retail, but you know what I mean. It’s that this is a lifestyle you can never leave. Not alive.”

Eve seems to consider something, her voice softer. “So why did you choose it?”

“I didn’t choose it. Someone recruited me without telling me that it would erase any other potential I had. I do this for a living and I will always do it for a living. Once you are in the organization, they won’t let you go.”

Eve swallows. “Because you’re a liability.”

“Because I’m a tool, and they don’t want me to be picked up by any other hands. They don’t like anybody else playing with their toys.” She looks at her, knows this is a conversation she has avoided for a long time, with Eve, but also with herself. “People die wishing for just one day on the outside. Retirement is too efficient.”

“That’s where you work now.”

“Yes. Mother told me…” She pauses. “She said that if I make myself insignificant within the organization, they might care less when I leave.”

“So you do plan on leaving.”

She nods. “I’ve thought about it.”

“What would you do?”

Be with you, she wants to say. “Go to Disney World.”

Eve snorts, looks at her, then snorts again. Busts into a long melody of laughter, only to pull Villanelle in with her, until they are both doubled over cackling. When it finally tires them out, Eve gives her a look.

“I know you enjoy killing, though. I’ve seen the scenes you leave behind too often to think otherwise.”

“You can find joy in anything, Eve.” Villanelle sighs. “Okay, killing the right ones, fine. I don’t hate it. I used to like it a lot more.”

“What changed?”

“You.”

Eve blinks. “Me.”

“Yes, Eve. You.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think the person you deserve should be someone with more compassion for the human existence. I can’t ever be that person entirely, but I can try harder. I can try to get there.”

Eve doesn’t respond to this, not at first. She stares at Villanelle, frowning with concern, and then she sets her hand on Villanelle’s knee. Villanelle looks at her hand, then at Eve’s face, and then she says something potentially moronic.

“I want to date you in a very normal way, okay?”

“Oh,” Eve says.

“I mean, first we have to go kill some people, that’s unavoidable now, but then I would like to try to be normal. Spending time together to watch movies and eat nice food, not just to commit necessary murders and endure torture or whatever.” She bites her lip. She’s nervous. Really, she’s nervous. “You don't have to say anything now. You can decide later, or you don’t have to decide at all. I’m just making my intentions known.

“Okay,” Eve says. She swallows.

“I don’t want to freak you out.”

“We’re about to potentially die.”

“Right, but this is a thousand times more terrifying.”

Eve gives her a look. “Are you sure you’re a psychopath?”

She shrugs. “You ought to talk to Mother about that.”

The horn of the ferry sounds, the low flat island spreading around them now as they pull into port. Villanelle sees the lighthouse ahead, the place where they are meant to find these idiots, and sighs.

“We’re a bit early,” she says. “And I’m sure this surprise of theirs is going to be just spectacular.

 

 

 

 

 

Well, it’s not quite a barn, but it isn’t not not-a-barn, either.

“Do I owe you, or do you owe me?”

Eve shrugs. “Let’s call it even."

 

 

 

 

 

Before they step out of the car, Villanelle touches Eve’s hand.

“I am not going to let you die today, do you understand?”

Eve’s expression changes, but she nods. “I understand.”

“That means that I may die. And if you see me getting into a position that is fatal, I need you to take that as your signal to run and get out of here, okay?”

Eve swallows. “Okay.”

“Here,” Villanelle says, handing her the car keys. “The gun is going to be behind the left front tire. I’ve angled the car so if they’re shooting from the door, you should be out of range if you’re squatting behind here, alright? Get the kids in the car if they make it, and get out of here. Don’t go back for me, don’t stall for me, don’t try to drag me anywhere if I can’t get there on my own.”

“But--”

“I need you to promise me, Eve.”

Eve says nothing for a long time. Finally, she wraps her fingers around Villanelle’s wrist, holds her tight there before letting go. “Yes,” she says, her voice low. “I promise.”

“Good.” She picks up the field hockey stick, swinging it over her shoulder as she gets out of the car. “Now we see what the fuck happens.

 

 

 

 

  
  
Only Villanelle would walk into this oversized shed and immediately think that it was predictable, if not boring. The kids tied up in the corner, mouths taped, looking clean and fed but not particularly happy about it. Two thugs next to the door, another next to the chairs - waiting, of course, for the honored guests. And whoever the mastermind is, an older woman with sunglasses and a blowout and a pair of stiletto heels clicking up and down the cement as she paces, looking up when they enter, and smiling a wide cheshire grin with her bright red lips.

Huh, Villanelle thinks. Huh, huh, huh.

“Eve Polastri,” the woman says, arms spreading wide. “And the infamous Villanelle.”

Flat accent, something mid-Atlantic American, a studied inflection. Either someone doing a practiced imitation, or someone who has worked hard to erase a regional dialect.

“Yeah, yeah,” Villanelle says as the door thugs step forward, patting both of down for weapons. She is unsurprised when they seize the field hockey stick, chuckling to themselves. “Let’s get this over with.” She snaps her fingers in the direction of the kids. “Which one of us are you supposedly letting go so they can drive the rugrats back? Since no one here seems to be capable of delivering an order.”

“They are not a pizza, Villanelle.” The woman lowers her sunglasses. Her eyes are unfamiliar. Villanelle is sure she has never seen her before. “But if you’d like to leave with them now, you’re welcome to do so.”

She points at her chest, feeling Eve’s eyes on her. “Me?”

“Mhm.” The woman smiles again, nodding at the man nearest the children, who gets them on their feet and shoves them towards Villanelle. “You drove here, didn’t you? You can take them and drive them back, thank you for your help.”

Eve looks between them, the man’s hands still gripping her arms. “Go, Villanelle.”

Villanelle snorts. “Nah.” She plants herself in the chair, crossing her legs and spreading her arms across the back. “I’m comfortable right here.”

“Villanelle.” Eve says, her teeth gritted. “You need to save these children.”

Villanelle shrugs. “So you take them.” She looks up at the other woman. “I’ve got to be worth more than Eve.”

The woman appraises her, hip cocked. “Fine a specimen as you are, darling, you’re not on my list. And last I heard, you didn’t even work in the field anymore.” 

Villanelle chuckles. “So what, you’re with the Twelve? You’re finally getting around to eliminating the object of my affection? Jesus, what took you so long?"

The woman’s laughter is melodic, high-pitched. She pushes her hair back with her sunglasses, sighs. “Villanelle, bless you. This has absolutely nothing to do with your affections, darling.”

“So what’s it all about, then? We’re in a...what is this, some kind of shed? You’ve managed to involve two children who will need a whole load of therapy when this is through, that was certainly kind of you. We’re on some island in the fucking Netherlands, which feels very unnecessary, this bloated swamp of a country is entirely unnecessary to begin with.” A light gasp from one of the thugs behind her. “All and all, this is a very poor operation. I bet they’re going to give you an unsatisfactory performance review when you’re done with this. A waste of budget, I’m sure. I bet a demotion is in your future.”

The woman steps forward and, still smiling, strikes Villanelle across the face very hard. She sighs again, just as she did earlier, a sound Villanelle is starting to loathe. “You think you’re very cute, don’t you?”

Villanelle licks her stinging lips, ignores the sharp heat in her cheek, her still swollen nose that now feels broken all over again. “On the contrary, I know I’m fucking adorable.”

“Are you two done?” Eve steps forward, slamming herself down into the chair, which she makes an emphasis of skidding away from Villanelle by a good foot. “I’m here. You wanted Blackbird, here I am. Villanelle, take the children and go.”

Villanelle laughs. “They can’t possibly be this stupid, Eve.”

Eve gives her a look. “I’m serious. Go.”

“They’re not going to let us leave.” She gestures at the woman in front of them, who has now crossed her arms, still looking bemused. “They’re going to let me walk out with the kids and get into a car? A car potentially full of weapons and then what, ram it through the side of the shed, open fire, and take off? God, there’s no way they’re this idiotic.” She winks at the woman. “Am I right?”

“Oh, we’re very stupid, Villanelle.” The woman nods. “Just absolute morons.”

“I mean, you are. Just not in the ways you know it.” She rolls up her sleeve, baring the inside of her arm. “I’ve got a good vein right here,” she says. “You’ll have no trouble finding it with a needle.” She snaps at the man standing next to her. “Come on, get your little syringe out or whatever you’ve got. Let’s start torturing if that’s what is on the agenda today.” The man looks from Villanelle to the woman, blinking in confusion. Villanelle groans. “God, you’re all so fucking slow. I should have just made an appointment.”

Eve is staring at her, her face a combination of shock, horror, and utter fury, a strange and wonderful mixture. She looks like a goddess of war, which Villanelle is loving, just absolutely loving, half in love with her from this expression alone, but she winks back at her, smirking.

“They’ve got no idea what they’re dealing with, do they?”

Eve’s mouth is still contorted into disgust, but she says, very clearly: “알겠어.”

And Villanelle is extremely grateful for that one winter in Chelyabinsk, her nine year old fingers half-frozen as she turned the cassette over in the player, sitting in her closet with the tinny headphones under her hat, and repeated for the hundredth time the ninth tape in her Learn Korean set.

The woman looks at Eve. “Sorry?”

“You’ve really undervalued me,” Villanelle says. “I mean, grossly undervalued me.”

She narrows her eyes. “Is your ego really that deflated over this? You’re not the target, Villanelle.”

“Which means you’ve undervalued me. But worse, you’ve underestimated her.” She nods over at Eve. “Because what you’re about to find out, is that--”

There is a popping noise as a bullet pierces the thin siding of the shed and explodes out the side of the man’s head to their left, causing him to drop messily to the ground.

“Oh  _ come on _ ,” Villanelle says, getting to her feet while taking the field hockey stick from the felled man’s limp hands, swinging it over her shoulder. “I was about to give a fucking monologue about Eve’s brilliance.”

Another bullet comes through the side, which strikes the shoulder of the man who was reaching for Eve, but she’s ducked out of his way and gone across the shed for the kids -- of course, Villanelle thinks, the morals of it all -- and Villanelle has made satisfying impact with the man’s forehead, a solid crack as he goes down with a grunt. She swings back to hit the next one, the one who thinks he ought to follow Eve, knocking the gun from his hands and then knocking him in the face, which sends him to his knees right after he slugs her in the jaw. It’s a bloody job, beating his face to a pulp, and she’s drenched in red by the time it’s done. She feels the sharp prick of a blade at her throat and throws back her head to knock the woman in her nose, spinning so the field hockey stick can make contact with the woman’s cranium. She’s downed immediately, though she’s still swiping at Villanelle’s legs with the knife and does make an impressive slash of her calf which will definitely need stitches if she doesn’t want to bleed out. 

“Now I don’t get to see the surprise,” Villanelle says, bringing the field hockey stick down onto the back of the woman’s head once, twice, a third time, until the woman is still.

She looks up. Eve and the children are gone. There are two men dead from gunshots, one from being mistaken for a field hockey ball, and the woman who appeared to be in charge of them is very much not alive. Villanelle thinks she might have hit brain on that last hit. 

God, she thinks. We should have just stayed in bed.

She makes a shitty tourniquet from the piece of shirt she cuts off the woman, ties it off above the wound and limps out of the shed. In her fist is the field hockey stick stained red and flecked with various pieces of human matter, but still tied up with the slightly askew pink bow, though it too has been splattered mercilessly.

“Eve,” she yells as she moves towards the car, which appears empty. “Eve, we’ve got to get going.”

Eve stands up from the other side, gun pointed at her. She sees Villanelle, balks, and runs towards her, using her shoulder to support her as they make a crooked path to the car. Villanelle slides into the passenger seat, looks behind her to see the twins, probably five or six years old, staring at her with stony faces.

“Hello,” she tries, wiggling her fingers with a wave. They do not blink, seemingly in shock. “Well,” she says, raising her eyebrows in exaggerated friendliness. “Wasn’t it  _ funny _ when everyone  _ pretended  _ to die?”

Eve slams the door of the driver’s side, turns the keys, and swears under her breath. Someone is running towards them down the sandy road, hands up, a woman with her salt-and-pepper hair in a tight bun and an all-black tactical ensemble. “Should I run her down?” Eve asks, looking to Villanelle, who cocks her head at the woman.

“I think that’s Mother’s strategy.”

The woman runs along to Eve’s window, gesturing for her to roll it down. “Well done,” she says, half-panting, her Australian accent a warm tangy splash of joy. “They’re all taken care of, yeah?”

“Uh, yes.” Eve is giving the woman a skeptical look. “Thank you, I guess.”

“Ah, no worries! Fantastic to dust the gun off and get the ol’ girl out. She’s stashed in the lighthouse, I’ll have someone pick her up later. Listen, do you think you could give me a ride to the ferry? She had me parachute in. Bit of a laugh for her, I think.” She sees Villanelle, grins. “Ah, you’re Oksana, then, I bet. She said you call her Mother, yeah? Good one. She must like you more than me to put up with it.” She taps on the window where the kids are. “Alright, you little buggers. Wanna slide over, make room for Aunt Victoria?”

Eve looks at Villanelle, her eyebrow raised, her voice a subtle whisper. “Jesus Christ,” she says. 

Villanelle shrugs. “I know.”

The woman closes the door behind her, holds out a hand for Villanelle to shake. “I’m Victoria, by the way. Based in Stockholm for now but I can be anywhere you need me. I’ve got a card, but I think it’s in my other vest.”

There's a movement out of the corner of Villanelle's eye -- one of the men has emerged from the shed, bleeding from his ear, but still moving, a gun waving poorly in his hand. Eve aims through Villanelle's open window and shoots him directly in the head, downing him immediately.

"Good shot!" Victoria laughs from the back, grinning jovially with her hands over the twins' eyes. "Didn't see that coming from you, no offense."

Eve snorts. Villanelle looks over at her, grinning proudly, that organ symphony blasting in her head. "Well, as likely as a pig herding sheep."

Eve's hand isn't even shaking as she lowers the gun. Not even a little bit. "Don't."

"That'll do, Eve." She reaches over to pat her on the head. "That'll do."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. how essential to me you have become

 

 

 

 

 

She has a tooth loose. She can feel it in the side of her mouth, the one just behind her left canine, likely knocked out of place by the earlier fist of the day. Villanelle sits with one bandaged leg up on the couch, fussing the tooth with her tongue, eyes narrowing each time the nerve is struck, her saliva metallic and warm, the pain exquisitely strong and addictive, the best kind of pain. The kind that can drown out anything, even the soft sounds of Eve messily packing in the bedroom of the cottage, closet doors opening and closing, the shower running for what seems like an hour. A welcome monotony after the messy, teeth-grating wails of Lore Baarsma being reunited with her equally loud children, Villanelle choosing to stand outside while they sobbed into each other’s damp clothing and made a nauseating show of their simultaneous misery and gratefulness.

When they’d driven away, Villanelle had given Eve a look, wiping a bit of bloody crud from the corner of her eye. “They’re lucky their mother is a therapist. They’ll need it.”

“We have to go back.”

She’d frowned at the prospect of such a notion, hands on her hips. “What? Why?”

“Evidence.” Eve ran her fingers through her hair. She tended to do this when thinking deeply or exasperated, Villanelle has noticed, one of her clearer tells. “Before they send someone in to clean up.”

“No, I got that. But why do _we_ have to do it?”

“Who else will?”

“Mother’s sending someone.”

Eve had not appeared convinced, eyebrows raised in skepticism. “Mother.”

“Sure. She said she’d take care of it, like Victoria back there.” Victoria who, for the record, had just about bounced out of the car and given them all a cheerful wave, as though she had not just exploded two heads like melons but was instead returning from a seaside holiday. “That’s what she does, I guess. Cleans up her children’s messes, the best kind of mother.”

Eve appeared to be mulling this over, her eyes somewhere else. “What did you say she was again? A doctor?”

“She’s a surgeon. She performs procedures on injured members of the organization.” Villanelle shrugged. “You know, so we don’t show up in hospitals with the kinds of wounds that make doctors call the police. I think you're familiar.”

“How does she have so much power?”

“Power?” Villanelle had laughed at this, imagining Mother in her jumpsuit, sipping her espresso with one of those smirks on her face. “She sits in her little chalet all day and scolds assassins with stab wounds, she doesn’t have any power.”

“But she’s called in a million favors for you. Who does she have working for her?”

“I don’t know. People who owe _her_ favors? You’d get a lot of those if you made your living saving people’s lives. And we value leverage in the organization, it’s a very big thing.”

“Yeah, but they just...do what she says? I mean, she arranged a sniper essentially overnight, she got you an arsenal and had it left in an abandoned house--”

“A few prescription bottles and a field hockey stick do not an arsenal make. Not a gargantuan effort.”

“She had the ID on Pitter Baarsma arranged, didn’t she?”

At the time, Villanelle was not sure where Eve is going with this. “I mean, yes…”

“You don’t see anything strange about that.”

“No.”

“You’re serious.”

“I don’t know. I’ve worked for a spooky shadowy organization my whole life, Eve. You get used to things happening because so-and-so up the chain made it happen.”

This answer had not seemed to satisfy Eve, who’d narrowed her eyes. “Do you trust her?”

“Yes.” And Villanelle had been quite serious at this point, which seemed to catch Eve off guard. “I trust her as much as I trust you.”

“Which is how much?”

“More than anyone else.”

Eve had smiled at her, then, a strange smile, the kind of smile that does not betray whatever emotion it masks, and she’d brushed her thumb over Villanelle’s cheek, at a particular glob of dried blood, and smirked a little when she’d managed to get it off. Villanelle had been unable to breathe at this point. All in all, it had been quite thrilling.

Now she’s no longer blood-stained, clean, in an all-black ensemble from Maison Margiela, cut for men and boxy on her smaller frame. The overcoat she appreciates because it can hold a number of useful things. Not that she’ll be able to bring them with her on the trip home - Mother’s arranged for her to put the lockbox in a petrol station on the way to the airport, and her guns she couriers as usual. Still, the deep pockets are good for burying her hands, hiding her cigarettes, which she has not touched yet for whatever reason. She digs harder at the tooth, her left eye twitching when the nerve sings. Listens to Eve shuffle around the other room. She lets herself want to always hear Eve in the other room when she is not directly in front of her.

Finally, the other woman emerges with her hair up, her brow still damp, her clothing changed. The suitcase rolls noisily along the floor tiles.

“Are you ready?”

Villanelle nods, still flicking the tooth with her tongue. Eve watches her, cocking her head, giving the room a sweeping glance.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” she tries again, her eyes falling with meaning on the field hockey stick that Villanelle has placed on the coffee table, altar-like, as though it were an object of worship. The blood has dried on it, a bit of human hair stuck into the gummy dark spots, and some other things, too, fleshy things and sharp white other things. Things that don’t leave a body willingly, and usually take some life with them.

“What?” Villanelle gives the stick a protective tap. “I’ve grown very attached to her.”

“It’s a ‘she’?”

“With that beautiful bow? Of course.”

“Well, I don’t think you can leave _her_ behind for the next guests.”

Villanelle shrugs. “Maybe they’re fans of the game. Maybe they could play a little match in the yard.”

“You’d want to wash it off first.” Eve’s nose wrinkles. “There are at least three people still on that stick.”

“Four,” Villanelle says, giving in and picking it up as she stands. She puts the club-end up close to her face, squinting. “Ooh, and I’ve got two different hair colors. Bonus points.”

“Someone in forensics would have a field day with that.”

“Brain tissue, blood, bone fragments.” She gives it a sniff. “Maybe a bit of spinal fluid. It’s like the parfait of crime scene finds. The Sachertorte of DNA evidence.”

Eve raises her eyebrows, sighing. “Sachertorte is always kind of dry, isn’t it? You’d have to pick a moister dessert.” She sees the look Villanelle is giving her, her cheeks going red. “For the metaphor.”

“The metaphor,” Villanelle says, grinning. “Of course, Eve.” She holds out the stick. “Do you want to touch it?”

“I’ve held a field hockey stick before.”

“No, not hold it. Touch it. The brain matter and all that. The messy part. Do you want to touch it?”

Eve’s mouth opens and closes. She stares at the stick. “Why?”

“Because that’s the part that is interesting to you. It’s quite dry, it’s not like it’ll get on anything. But I think it’s worth feeling what that feels like. What somebody leaves behind.” She keeps it aloft. “Go on.”

Eve makes a face, though her hand still takes the stick from Villanelle, taking a closer look at the carnage now stuck to its end, and she does investigate it with her fingers, pulling cautiously at the hairs. She picks out a tiny white crumb with her nails, holds it up to the light to examine it.

“That’s skull,” Villanelle says. “A bit of the occipital bone, I’d guess.”

“I know.” Eve closes her fingers around the fragment.

“Are you going to take it with you?” Villanelle watches her, eyes narrowing. “That’s a bit too serial killer. Assassins don’t take trophies.”

“Was that an assassination?”

“I wouldn’t say we did it for the fun of it.” She gives her a pointed look. “Contrary to popular belief.”

After what seems like an eternity, Eve sets the stick back down, and the tiny bone fragment next to it. She shivers. “That’s disgusting.”

“Mmm.” Villanelle shrugs. “You didn’t flinch, though, did you? Feeling nauseous?”

Eve shakes her head. “No.”

“Well done, then.” She gets to her feet, taking the stick with her. “Can I tell you something?”

Eve nods, her arm drawn into her side.

“It is disrespectful to take a life without coming to terms with it. The act, I mean. If you cannot shoot someone in the head and then stare at the hole you’ve made in them for the better part of an hour, then you did not deserve to shoot them.” Villanelle leans forward. “The killing is only half of the violence. The next half begins when you face what you’ve done, and you stomach it.”

Eve pauses before responding, examining Villanelle, always examining her, a bit like she examined the gristle Villanelle had left on her weapon. “Is this the part where you remind me that I take to this all too naturally or whatever?”

“No,” Villanelle says, because she doesn’t need to remind Eve when she is already quite aware of it. “Shall I call that taxi? Last chance for a threeway, Eve. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Eve makes a gagging noise.

“Agreed.” Villanelle smirks into her phone.

The stick she throws in the marsh. She makes a quick speech about Arthurian myth and how if a hand rises up with the field hockey stick in its grip, then she is allowed to keep it by the will of the Lady of the Lake. Eve laughs at her, openly, shaking her head in that way that shows she is charmed. Villanelle lives for it.

 

 

 

 

 

In the airport, Villanelle strategically waiting for Eve to board, strategically revealing nothing about her destination, Eve does something quite bold: she snatches Villanelle’s passport and boarding pass out of the other woman’s hands.

“ _Excuse_ me,” Villanelle says, making a swipe for it, but Eve steps away, keeping it just out of her grasp. “You’ll pay for that. I’d bite you on the neck if we weren’t in a space full of security guards.”

Eve makes a face. “That doesn’t seem like a punishment.”

“It isn’t, but you’re still being rude.”

“Maria Terekhova?” Eve holds up Villanelle’s passport, the one for her French national alias. “Really?”

Villanelle’s voice lowers, dipping her head close to Eve’s, dropping to a whisper. “She’s an actress. Well, the surname is an actress, the first name is the character she plays in a film...” and she tries once more to grab it away under the guise of kissing her on the side of her mouth, but Eve is far too triumphant, skirting around the seating area like a child. Villanelle sighs, collapsing into a chair, watching Eve plant herself in the seat in front of her, grinning.

Eve makes a noise of victory, something like a laugh. “London.” Her face falls. “Wait, London?”

“I have a stopover. No direct flights from here to where I live.” Villanelle smirks, having won this battle. “Nice try, though, Eve. A very valiant effort.”

“Are you on the continent?”

She shrugs, still smirking. “I could be. Or I could be somewhere else entirely.”

“Wouldn’t there be faster ways to get here if you were?”

“And miss the opportunity to confuse you with roundabout flight schedules? Hardly worth the saved time.”

Eve, of course, is absolutely on the mark. There were much faster ways to get here: rail, a car, even a bus, but that would have made it a bit clearer to Eve where Villanelle is, and Villanelle takes no chances with this woman. Of course, that was only about _getting_ here. Once Eve is on the plane, Villanelle will be crumpling her plane ticket, walking outside to catch a bus to Hamburg, and then a train to Prague, and Eve will be stubbornly wondering somewhere else.

“We’re going to the same airport,” Eve says, handing her back the passport. “So I’m going to wait around and see where you go. I can wait for hours if I need to, I’m in no rush.”

“My favorite stalker.”

“Or you could just tell me where you live.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because it does.”

“I thought I was allowed at least a few secrets. Secrets keep a marriage more interesting.”

“We’re not married.”

Villanelle smirks, dipping her head forward to grin up at Eve, the kind of feral servile grin that usually changes Eve’s mind. “And isn’t that a shame?”

Eve leans back in her seat, an eyebrow raised. The grin did not work. “You tell me everything else. I don’t know why this is the one thing you’re holding out on. It seems very pointed.”

Because I’m trying to lie low, she thinks, and if you show up and they know about it, I won’t be able to lie very low for long. And because it’s clear you can’t help yourself anymore, once you bite in and get a taste for a thing, and now you’ve got a taste for me.

Eve’s flight is finally announced. They stand next to each other at the gate, Villanelle leaning against the wall, Eve’s eyes on her, her arms folded. A few inches apart, as if that matters. She is acutely aware of everything that has transpired between them over the last twenty four hours. Not the killing part, not even that. The...other part. Eve could get on that plane now and never come back to her and Villanelle will still be able to close her eyes for the rest of her life and hear the exact sounds Eve makes when she’s about to come - a litany of fucks, actually - and it’s enough to make her knees weak. It also makes her keep her distance. Eve seems determined to do the same.

God, we’re both idiots, Villanelle thinks. What a pair of fucking dolts.

“Do you want a goodbye kiss?” Villanelle offers finally, a few seconds before Eve seems about to step into the line. Eve freezes, her lip caught under her teeth, and she takes too long to respond, her brow furrowed. Villanelle shrugs, a half-cocked smirk, and turns on her heel. “Safe flight, then."

 

 

 

 

 

She plans on sleeping on the bus, and then on the train, positioned between a snoring German businessman and an Italian who has carried on a phone conversation for the entire ride. But she is distracted.

The hitch in her plan is that Eve texts her while she is almost in Bremen, her knees against the bus seat in front of her. Villanelle chews the corner of her mouth, tongue still brushing that tooth, reading.

 

 

> When are we going to see each other again?
> 
> I’m not sure.
> 
> Do you have an upcoming threat to your life on your calendar?
> 
> Is that what it will take?
> 
> That is entirely up to you, Eve.
> 
> If you say you want to meet me, I’ll be there.
> 
> Whatever the circumstances.
> 
> I’d prefer not to have to defy death to do that again.
> 
> And yet the French have a term that translates to “little deaths”...
> 
> Clever.
> 
> Well done.
> 
> You’re not in this airport right now, are you?
> 
> I am not.
> 
> And you’re not coming to London, are you?
> 
> I am not.
> 
> Fuck.
> 
> Well done again.
> 
> Well, I am a professional.

  


It’s just after she’s boarded the train in Hamburg that she pulls her phone out again. She’s gnawing frikadellen, still hot, her thumb greasy with brown sauce as she types. The German has sat down next to her and almost instantly fallen asleep. The other man won’t take her glare as a hint.

 

 

> I know you’re not with him anymore.

 

It’s nearly twenty minutes before she gets a response, despite her message being read almost immediately after being sent.

 

 

> I thought you might figure that out.
> 
> Eventually.
> 
> I just needed some kind of restraint and I thought that was the best way.
> 
> I would never do anything you didn’t ask for.
> 
> Not a restraint for you.
> 
> I trust you.
> 
> For me.
> 
> I don’t trust me.
> 
> You don’t trust yourself how?
> 
> To not ask you to fuck me.
> 
> Oops.
> 
> Exactly.
> 
> But I don’t think it was a bad idea.
> 
> Do you think it was a good idea?
> 
> It was an idea.
> 
> Yes, it was good.
> 
> More than good but you know that already.
> 
> Look.
> 
> I told you my intentions.
> 
> You don’t need to know your answer, or even have an answer.
> 
> But if you want to talk about sex, if you want to talk about meeting up, you have to assume that I will assume things about your intentions.
> 
> And I will have questions.
> 
> I will want to know where I stand.
> 
> Is that your roundabout way of asking “what are we”?
> 
> No.
> 
> I have no interest in labels.
> 
> A label is for a jar.
> 
> Or a can of worms.
> 
> Exactly.
> 
> So what are we?
> 
> Very funny.
> 
> Are we the type of people who would meet up again in some other city?
> 
> I believe we are.
> 
> I’m a bit busy for the rest of the month.
> 
> I thought you were on leave.
> 
> I’ve got some job prospects.
> 
> Does that mean you need to stay in London?
> 
> I think so.
> 
> I don’t think it’s a big deal.
> 
> I’m sure you’re busy for a month wherever you are.
> 
> In your mystery locale.
> 
> Then I can come to you.
> 
> Is that a good idea?
> 
> London is a big city, Eve.
> 
> If I don’t want to be seen, I am not seen.
> 
> Except for me.
> 
> You are always an exception.

 

 

 

 

 

  
It’s overcast when they get to Prague, and Villanelle shivers as she drags her suitcase to Wenceslas Square, the air cold and dry and tinged with the seasonal lingering of smoke and exhaust, enough to make her nostrils sting. It’s a short walk, but it is, of course, not without its interruptions.

“Have a nice trip?”

She stops, spinning in place. Someone has put their foot on the wheel of her luggage.

It is Maxim.

“Are you always trying to come across as a perverted stalker, or is that entirely unintentional?”

He smiles at her, cigarette glowing in the corner of his mouth. “It’s a small city.”

“Not that small.”

“You are the one in the wrong, though, being the stalkerish one. I am usually here, and you are never here.”

“How is that?”

“I live up there,” he says, pointing above the cafe he’s standing next to, two floors of windows above its facade. “But you didn’t answer me. How was your trip?”

She frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your luggage.” Maxim nods at the suitcase. “Unless there’s a body in there.”

“Not yet. But you look like you’d fit if we cut off your limbs.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went to Vitebsk,” she says, giving him a look. “Your mother needed me to loosen her up.”

“My mother is dead.”

“Your sister, then. I get confused sometimes because she calls me ‘тата.”

“I see,” he says, still smirking, unmoved by it all. “So you didn’t go see your lover.”

She cringes at the term. “I hate that word. Why do people still use that word?”

“What is her name again?”

“You don’t know your own sister’s name?”

“I did not seek out this knowledge, you know.” He shrugs. “Everyone talks in the office. I heard a rumor you have a woman somewhere. That is the only reason I ask. Because I assume, that is all.”

“Who do you talk to in the office? I thought you were always off in the corner, being a reject.”

“No one has to talk to me for me to listen.”

“There you go with the unintentional creeping again.”

“I hope you had a nice time.”

“Ask your sister,” she says, yanking her suitcase away and stalking around the corner, taking a few stray streets before finally rounding to her apartment, scowling. The fucker. He’s playing with her, either because he knows something or because he’s an ass, maybe both.

At any rate, she won’t have anything to do with him at work tomorrow. Not that she would anyway, but she tries to make an extra effort to ignore his presence with a fury. Enough that Piotr comments on it and laughs, and makes her accompany him to his favorite spot to tell him about anything else to distract from the week to come.

 

 

 

 

 

“Are we friends?”

Piotr looks up from the sausage he is currently biting, teeth-first, making a face as he swallows. “You and me?”

“Yes,” she says, her fingers drumming the edge of her glass. She purses her lips in anticipation of his answer. “Are you and I friends?”

Piotr gives her a look, and then another look, and then he begins to laugh. He laughs enough that fine bits of sausage scatter across the table from his mouth. Enough that some of the other patrons give them a curious glance, then return undisturbed to their meals.

“Fine,” she says, setting her jaw and slamming down the rest of her drink. She gets to her feet. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“ _Kotku.”_ He grabs her hand, yanking her firmly back into her chair. “Villanelle. Where are you going?”

She keeps her tone cool. “Away.”

He seems stunned by her response, a few strands of his fine hair falling from its bun. “Villanelle, of course we are friends. Why would you think we are not friends? If anything, we are more than just friends, we are _close_ friends.”

She has no idea what to say to this. Nothing. She makes a kind of noise in her throat, arms crossed. “And you aren’t lying to me?”

He laughs again, though he is quiet when he sees her look. “No, goodness no. Why is that so hard to believe?”

She clears her throat. “I am not someone who has friendships.”

“Really? But you’re very pleasant to spend time with.”

She gives him a look. “Please.”

“You are! Very charming, very witty, a good conversationalist. I think you are hilarious. I could just go home after work or find someone to screw but I choose to go get food with you, don’t I?”

“Well, you like food.”

“I do, I love food. But I love your company, too.” He pats her hand, ignoring when she makes a face at the gesture, squeezing her fist. “Yes, yes, another lone wolf caged up after field work who thinks they’re some sort of antisocial lunatic. You’re not a pariah, Villanelle.”

She says it very plainly. “I’m a psychopath.”

He lets go, gives her a skeptical look, his smile reforming. “Psychopath? God, who told you that? That’s almost as hilarious as you thinking we are not friends.”

“I had a doctor.”

“What, from the organization?”

“Well…” She remembers the psychiatrist’s strained face as he held up the image of Anna, Konstantin frowning over his shoulder. “Yes. But--”

“Villanelle, I was a _handler_.”

“And?”

“Let me guess, they had someone come in and show you a lot of inkblots and say ‘Does this look like your father? Don’t you want to gouge his eyes out and set him on fire or whatever?’ Didn’t you ever wonder why the shrink kept showing up and reinforcing the same thing?”

She says nothing, swallowing more of her drink.

“If you are told you are a monster, you are more likely to do monstrous things because you think you are entitled to it. The brain is very malleable. It will adapt quickly to the assumptions you feed it.”

“There’s a spectrum.” Villanelle stares at the foam sliding down the side of the glass, now emptied. “Psychopathy isn’t all Hannibal Lecters.”

“Was he a psychopath?”

“He ate people, Piotr. Gleefully.”

“So all cannibals are psychopaths? Or reluctant cannibals are not psychopaths?”

“It’s an antisocial behavior. Antisocial behavior that can’t be helped.”

“Do you kill every girl you fuck? Is there some sort of insatiable need in you?” He leans forward, his unserious horror struck through with playfulness. “How many people have you eaten, Villanelle?”

She rolls her eyes, slapping his arm. “Spectrum, Piotr! Like the color wheel. You can be orange or yellow or chartreuse, you don’t have to be red.”

“I understand the word. My English is very good, _kotku_. Outstanding, actually.” He gives her a look. “By the way, you know we are friends because I have a pet name for you. That is a good sign for the future if you want to know if someone thinks you are their friend.”

She feels defensive. “You could have been teasing me.”

“You would have known. Give yourself more credit. You can read people.”

“I can read weakness.”

“You can read other things, too. You always know when I am hungry.”

“You are always hungry. Somehow.” She gestures at his bony frame. “Cocaine, I assume.”

He winks. “Good genes. I’d be a fool to buy blow in this town. They bloat the prices here like a corpse in direct sunlight.”

“Lovely image.”

“It’s true. Tourists ruin everything.” He gets back to his sausage, snapping off another piece with his teeth. “Listen, there is one small advantage to this dull department of ours, isn’t there? We get to belong a little more to ourselves here. They’re not actively moulding you into some human version of a nuclear warhead anymore, are they?”

“We are still killing people, Piotr.”

“Oh, but it’s very efficient and bloodless, isn’t it? We might as well be doing something normal. It makes it all quite normal.”

“Perhaps.” She steals the last chunk of his sausage.

“What you used to do, only Villanelle could do. They made sure of that. But what you do now, well. They could replace you with a trained dog, couldn’t they, so long as it could type and squeeze a syringe, put a bullet in a man seated in a chair?”

“It would need opposable thumbs.”

“A monkey, then. Or any idiot off the street. My point is that you are not significant anymore. Isn’t that a nice feeling? I like that feeling very much. I used to carry the burden of the world, and whatever burdens the trigger-happy steroid bags I nannied slid off onto me. Now my responsibilities are small, and I can leave them at my desk every evening. Go off to do something that isn’t age-appropriate without the worry they’ll tsk-tsk me for it tomorrow.”

“But someday they will still retire you.” Us, she thinks. Me.

Piotr laughs, shrugging. “Better that then old and dead on a toilet, or on top of some horrified man I don’t really love.”

“You don’t mind dying.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she says. “I have things I want to do.”

“And that woman of yours, you wouldn’t want to leave her.”

She chews on this. “No, never.”

“See, what would I have to miss? I won’t ever love again, I won’t ever get a new career, I won’t make more money than I do now. What is there to think ‘ah, I ought to have stuck around a bit longer’? Those days are behind me now.”

She snorts. “You sound like Mother.”

“That isn’t a coincidence.”

And this she waits for further information on, but Piotr offers nothing more, quiet as he drains the last of his beer, letting out a gasp of satisfaction, and then pulling on the collar of his silk shirt, half-unbuttoned as always to billow dramatically, revealing the light down on his chest. He gets to his feet, pulling on his sherpa-lined tan leather jacket, eternally on brand, and she follows, the night air hitting them, a cold slap as they step out into the cobblestone alley.

“If we really are friends,” she starts, choosing her words carefully. “And you betray me somehow, then it will be...extra bad.”

He nods, wiping his chin with his glove. “Yes, that’s generally how that goes.”

She speaks slowly, looking him in the eye. “I will have to kill you in a horrible way, you know that.”

“Of course. I’d expect nothing less.”

“But you won’t betray me.”

He smirks again, though it is sincere, she can tell that much. “I had no intention to ever betray you, not unless you’re a real cunt and do it first.”

“Good. I…” She pauses, taking a deep breath to push through the unnatural feeling of it, this sentiment. “I will not betray you either.” She holds out her hand, which he stares at. “We should do this.”

“I don’t know what that means, _kotku_.”

“I want to shake hands.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to shake hands on it.”

“On not betraying each other?”

“On friendship.”

“Oh,” he says, and steps forward, ignoring her outstretched hand and instead wrapping her in a stifling hug. “Too formal, _kotku_. For friendship, we embrace.”

She can smell his cologne - expensive, but popular - and the lingering tang of beer, and it is not natural for her, this gesture, but she closes her eyes and allows it to happen, wills herself not to immediately stiffen when he tightens his grip, sighing as he presses her closer.

“See,” he says when he releases her, that smile of Piotr’s like a light in the dim. “Was that so bad, my supposed psychopath?”

She rolls her eyes. “I do not enjoy hugs. For future notice.”

“Such a prickly little rose.” He pats her on the head. “I will refrain from now on, my promise. Unless you beg me for an embrace, I offer none.”

Villanelle nods, appreciating his respect of her boundaries, though still shaken by the gesture itself. And now she must ask something else. “I need you to come back to my apartment.”

“Forward of you.”

“We need to talk.”

“I will not be your sperm donor, no matter how unbelievably attractive my genes are.”

“Luckily for you, I have no intention of becoming a parent.”

“Luckily for me? More like luckily for the world.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Have you ever met one of the Twelve?”

Piotr snorts. He is sitting in one of the old chairs she’s bought since she moved here, used but in good taste, his foot slung up over his knee. Villanelle is at the counter, throwing together what will have to pass for a cocktail. She drops a half-full tumbler into his hand, the ice cracking loudly.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“You can take that as a _resounding_ no,” he says, clinking his glass against hers as she sits down. “I have never met one and I hope to never meet one.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’d have been a very, very bad boy if I’m sat down in front of them. Any or all of them.”

“So no one you know has met them.”

“No one alive.”

She gives him a look. “I thought you didn’t fear death.”

“I don’t fear retirement. A very different concept. We are talking about suffering here. Extreme suffering of medieval calibres.”

“What do you know about them?”

“What do _you_ know about them? I’m sure our knowledge is about the same. They pay us, they seem to be stretched across the organization, they remain anonymous for their own protection. They are the highest of the high-ups.”

“Do you think they are government-embedded?”

“I think they could be anything. I wouldn’t limit them to predictable occupations.” He leans forward, seeming to size her up. “I have to know why you’re asking. Because I have the funniest feeling that it has to do with what you did over the weekend, and I’d bet a large sum of money that the lady love of yours is involved, too.”

“Someone tried to kill me. Well, _her._ Us. Mostly her.”

“Did they? You’ve never said what it is she does.”

She clears her throat, studying the wall. “She used to work for the...British government.”

“Oh, dear.” He gives her one of those half-cocked grins, his tongue running across his upper lip. “Villanelle, you _didn’t_.”

“We don’t technically work for opposing sides anymore. She said MI5 kicked her out or something, I don’t know.”

“Konstantin was your handler, wasn’t he?”

She has never told him that before. She almost bristles at hearing the name now, something she has chosen to not think about for reasons she herself isn’t quite aware of, not yet. “Yes,” she says, carefully.

“And he never told you that you are not to fuck any enemy you can’t kill immediately afterwards?”

“She isn’t my enemy.”

“Maybe what they said about him was true.”

She cocks her head. “What did they say about him?”

“There are stories about Konstantin, but there are stories about everyone. Even you.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“You didn’t fuck the princess of Denmark, did you?”

She laughs. “I think I would remember that.”

“See? If that never happened, then I’m sure Konstantin being soft didn’t happen either.”

“Soft for who?”

“The other side. Double agents he got in bed with. A few politicians who shouldn’t have liked him so much. And his charges, all of you, too. Supposedly he went too easy on the assassins he supervised.” Piotr shrugs. “Handlers all talk shit about other handlers, though. We are made to compete for decent assignments. There is not much cream in that crop, but what there was, we fought for. Like you. I think people were jealous his wards had such good records. So they said he went too easy on you, maybe to get you transferred.”

She snorts. “He could be a bastard when he wanted to be.”

“As could we all. But who knows what the truth really is. Truth is not so important for us, is it?” He gives her a look. “I know you killed him. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she lies. “He deserved it.”

“But you still work for the organization, don’t you? So maybe some of it was true. They would have been a bit angrier that you eliminated Konstantin if he was innocent.” He studies her for a minute, seeming to find what he’s looking for. “Anyhow, you think the organization is trying to kill this woman of yours because she worked for the other side?”

“I don’t know. Mother said there was no hit called on our end.”

He takes a long swig of his drink, his eyes never leaving her. “Mother.”

She knows what that look means. “Do you think I can trust her?”

“I think you already do, so my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“But do you think I should?”

“I don’t know her enough to say so.” He shrugs. “She’s quite powerful, isn’t she? It is very good to have powerful mothers, I think, but better maybe to know the source of their power, too.”

“That’s what Eve said. That the amount of power she has is suspicious.”

He claps. “Eve! Is that really her name? You don’t have to tell me, I just find it so poetic.”

Well, she might as well at this point. “Eve Polastri.”

“Polastri?” He smirks. “You didn’t tell me she was Polish, _kotku_. I have to meet her now.”

“She isn’t. That’s her husband’s name.”

“Husband?” His reaction is not controlled. “Amazing.”

“They’re separated.”

“I bet they weren’t when you two started this little game.”

“That’s her business.”

“You and I regard marriage about as lowly as anything else, so you don’t need to worry about judgment from me.” He holds up his glass in a salute. “You are in love with her?”

She nods once. “Yes.”

“And you’ve told her that.”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t you tell her that?”

Villanelle swallows. What an interesting question, one she has certainly turned over enough times in the deep of her own thoughts without ever allowing it to fully surface. “I don’t think it is important to say it out loud. I have demonstrated it enough times.”

“I’ve heard that women need it spelled out. They like to hear even the most obvious things, and exhaustively often.”

She frowns. “She is not like most women. And you’re being reductive on top of that.”

“Of course she is not like most women. This is why you are in love with her.” His eyebrows raise. “Oh, but you think the Twelve are responsible? That would not be very good for either of you, not if you want to keep this up. You’ll be dead soon if they want you dead.”

“I need to find someone who would recognize the Twelve if they saw them. There has to be someone in the organization who knows something.”

“Gunther.”

She blinks. “Gunther? Ponytail Gunther?”

“He’s much higher up than you think.”

“Definitely more than I think, because I think he is fairly low on the pole.”

“Oh, no. That is a good rule to remember. Don’t fuck with Gunther.”

She makes a face, getting to her feet to pour them more alcohol. She’s down to the shittier vodka now. “Noted.”

“So, did you see who was trying to kill you?”

“He was ex-military, KCT. They kidnapped his children and held them ransom until he finished off Eve. He went to Paris, interrupted our liaison, and now he is in pieces around Paris.”

“Your work, I assume.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice. I wasn’t going to leave him lying around the apartment to rot.” She holds up a finger. “And I don’t like being disturbed, so...”

“Who does? I would have done the same.”

“We went to visit his wife and the ones who hired him showed up, or at least someone they’d sent.”

“‘We’ being you and this Eve?”

She nods, slowly stirring juice into the glass. “Mother suggested I ask her along.”

“Mother!” His eyebrows raise. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave.”

“I think she enjoys the idea of my relationship with Eve.”

“Or she wanted to get her in the position you two eventually found yourselves in.”

“She is a little too invested in my sex life, yes.”

“Sex?” His laughter now is a bark, his grin wild. “ _Kotku_ , finally. That explains why you seem much less tense. You aren’t holding your shoulders up at your ears anymore.” He pauses, his expression shifting. “Of course I wasn’t talking about what you two did in bed. I meant the ransom and the people trying to kill you.”

Villanelle chews on this for a while, staring at the liquid spilling into the glass, nearly letting it overflow. “It wouldn’t make sense. She has no reason to endanger Eve.”

“You know better than me.” He shrugs. “What did they look like, the brutish ones?”

“I don’t know.” She hands him his second drink, which he sniffs and blinks at a few times, clearly holding down his judgment. “Typical. Steroid boys, standard issue. The one in charge was an American woman, or someone doing a decent American accent. I’ve never seen her before.”

“And you think she’s one of the Twelve?”

“Probably not. They wouldn’t stoop as low as an errand like that, would they?”

Piotr takes a sip, makes a face, and then swallows with exaggeration. “ _Kurwa_.”

“I am a contract killer, not a cocktail artist.”

“ _Former_ contract killer. Now that you have more free time, you should buy better vodka and learn what to do with it.” He waves his hand when she goes to take the glass from him, taking another sip. “No, no, this is what I was made for, speaking as we were before of good genes. Anyhow, this American woman...”

“If she’s with us, I can’t find any records that match her, but Mother’s on it, anyway.”

“Mother again.” Piotr’s eyes narrow. “She’s really giving you a lot of aid, isn’t she?”

“Why is everyone acting like that’s strange? You’ve had friendships. Don’t people ever do you favors?”

“These are much more than favors.”

“They are favors to me.”

“I’d just be aware in the future the next time you call one in.”

Something in her chest thrums a bit, and she sits back in her chair, frowning at him. “Watch it.”

He looks half-apologetic, shaking his head. “Hush, I’m not saying she is a bad person. I know she is important to you."

She rolls her eyes. “She’s not important to me.”

“Important enough you call her Mother.”

“It’s a joke.”

“Is it?”

She gives him a look. “If you really are my friend, if I really can trust you, then I need something from you. Can you do that?”

“You’re asking me for help.”

“I’ll give you something of equal value in exchange.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Piotr laughs, appearing eternally entertained by her inability to understand the limits of human relationships. Not that she is so hopeless as she used to be, not at all. “No, no. I am your friend. I will help you because I care about you. That is what a friend does.”

She blinks. “...oh. Fine, then.”

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
A few drinks later finds Piotr asleep on her couch, a sheet wrapped around him as he snores. She sits on her bed, aware that it is so late that it will soon be early, aware the glow on the horizon is no longer just the moon, but she texts Eve.

 

 

> Are you free two weeks from now?

 

She expects no response, and yet there is immediately a set of ellipses on her phone.

 

 

> Yes.
> 
> Not sleeping?
> 
> No.
> 
> Is that by your choice?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> One word answers make me wonder if your other hand is busy.

 

A series of ellipses, which disappear, reappear, and then disappear again. Finally, a few minutes later, a response.

 

 

> What days two weeks from now?
> 
> Finished? Well done.
> 
> The weekend.
> 
> I’m free.
> 
> See you in London, then.
> 
> I’ll text you the place to meet me when I get there.
> 
> Does that work for you?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
In a few hours, Piotr is shaking her awake, looking tousled and amused but somehow prettier. His constant prettiness is slightly infuriating.

“A wonderful day at the office awaits,” he says. “And I think you might have some clothes I could borrow.”

She opens one eye, yawns. “You assume a lot.”

“A little _lesbijka_ with a closet like yours, please. I know there’s something in there I can wear.”

“Fine.” She gestures towards the other side of the room. “Touch nothing you’d stretch out.”

“You are a star, _kotku_.”

She’s getting out of bed, padding around in her underwear and tying back her hair. “No one had better make any jokes about us sleeping together.”

“What in the world would they think we do? Honestly, what would we ever do in that situation?”

“I don’t know,” she says, looking him up and down. “I guess I could fist you in the asshole.”

He laughs loudly at this, buttoning up one of her silk shirts, which, shit, she thinks, looks better on him. “Bless you for thinking I am not a top.”

“Another thing we have in common.”

“And what else do we have in common?”

“My shirt, now. Which you will return in impeccable condition.”

He holds his hand over his heart. “You have my word.”

“I mean it. Do not fuck anyone in that shirt. Do not eat anything that dribbles. Do not even think unclean thoughts.”

“Is this what you meant by betrayal last night? Are you going to kill me if I get a stain on this?”

“Yes,” she says, deadly serious, and gives him a dark look. He winks, pulling on his overcoat.

“Come, I will buy you breakfast. I think you are extra sensitive and brooding when you’re hungry.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Hello,” she says, sitting down on the stool next to her. “This is a nice place.”

Villanelle looks up. It is a bar in Hackney, somewhere she walked past three times when she was last on an assignment around here, two years and approximately twenty lifetimes ago. It had first caught her eye because there was a woman standing outside of it, smoking. She reminded Villanelle of someone, not Anna, but the most recent one from Oslo who had shoved Villanelle to the floor with her heeled boot and made her sing her praises before letting her in bed. The woman had seen her watching, smirked, and then turned back to the man she was with. But Villanelle had come back the next night and the night after that, one of them with blood under fingernails and slight perspiration from having to duck out an alley to avoid a janitor finding her standing over the body of that solicitor. Not in search of heterosexual women to crack open like a crustacean, but the bar, the darkness inside, the songs she’d heard. She didn’t know why she’d liked it, but she had. Maybe it was because of now, this moment, Eve sliding in closer to her, her shoulders squared in that confidence she put on when she was slightly nervous, her brows always tilting as though she was on the verge of begging for something.

“Is that new?”

Eve’s taken off her jacket, revealing a dress. Villanelle is beginning to realize that Eve only seems to wear dresses where Villanelle is concerned. “I got it this week.”

“Did you get it for me?”

Eve’s tongue runs the length of her teeth, a testing grin. “I...got it for me.”

“Only teasing.” She slides her the cocktail menu. “I don’t own you. You do as you please.”

“You’re allowed to want me to do things for you, though.”

Villanelle studies her expression, finds the look to be genuine. She tilts her head. “I’ll remember that.”

Eve glances at the menu again, a smirk forming. She orders from the bartender and then skates her fingers over the surface of the bar. “And maybe I thought about how you would see me in it. Maybe.”

“Oh, you definitely thought about it.” She leans in, touches her forehead to Eve’s hair as she whispers in her ear. “Did you think about how it would be easy for me to get it off you?”

Eve says nothing for a minute, waiting as her drink is prepared, watching, but there’s a lot in her silence for Villanelle to read: the uncrossing and crossing of her legs, her tongue wetting her lips, that quick rough laugh of hers. “Did you hear from Mother about the evidence?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s been two weeks.”

“Sometimes it takes a while.” She shrugs, sips her drink. She’s doing that thing she likes to do when she’s asserting herself around Eve, her elbows cocked up on either side of the bar, her stance forward, her legs crossed the wide way. She stretches herself out, all angles, all pointed in Eve’s direction. It also looks good with these pants and this jacket, a Paul Smith suit from a few seasons ago that always has women giving her a second glance. Or maybe it’s just how she holds herself in it. She’d hold herself any which way for this woman, even in knots.

Eve’s drink arrives, gin and elderflower. She takes a sip, looks over at Villanelle. “Have you been here before?”

“No, I’ve just seen it from the outside. I looked it up online and they said it had a good atmosphere for dates.”

“Is this a date?”

Why does her stomach spin just a little? “I don’t know, Eve. Is it?”

“Every time we go on something resembling a date, someone ends up dead.”

“What a coincidence.”

“Who do you think we’re going to have to kill tonight?” Eve looks around the bar, squinting. “I wonder if they’re already here, just sitting in the dark.”

“Maybe third time's the charm. No bloodshed tonight, not unless it is consensual.”

“I’ve never tried something like that.”

“Never tried what?”

Eve’s voice lowers, her head closer to Villanelle’s, her breath warm on her ear. “Tried to draw blood.”

Villanelle studies her own fingers. “My nails aren’t ever very long. They get in the way of work.” And other things, too.

Eve holds up her hands. “Mine are long enough.”

Villanelle studies them, a smirk forming. “So they are.”

"And there’s always sharp objects.”

“Is that a joke?” Villanelle’s hands goes to her middle, right over the scar. “Wait, did you get off on stabbing me?”

“No,” Eve says, suddenly very serious, looking slightly horrified. “Oh god, no. I felt awful about it. It was not...erotic.”

“I would hope not. It’s one thing to get off on a scratch. It’s another if you need to get me close to death every time.”

“Well, I don’t know if I like the scratching.”

“Not yet.”

“Right,” Eve says, sucking on her own lip. “Not yet.”

Villanelle looks at her, already imagining Eve dragging her nails down her back, gouging her, trying to use her teeth to form beads of blood on Villanelle’s shoulders. “Somehow I think you will.”

 

 

 

 

  
  
There’s a dance floor in the basement, and they’re three drinks deep when Villanelle suggests they go down. There’s a moment on the stairs, the music thumping so loudly that Villanelle can’t hear her, can only feel that Eve has grabbed her hand, squeezing it so tightly that it hurts, frozen in place. Villanelle waits, watches Eve staring at the dim crowd, lit by strobe so that each movement is an image in green or red, watches Eve’s expression change, suddenly cold in red, suddenly sad in green. She releases Villanelle’s hand, looks up at her.

“What?” Villanelle asks. Briefly, so briefly, she recalls the feeling of a knife burying in flesh, the grate of the blade on the bone of ribs, the sternum, that smell of dancing bodies, and the air outside the club, smoke and sweat and signature Berlin. Ah, she thinks. Of course.

But Eve seizes her hand again.

“Nothing,” she says, and Villanelle decides not to ask for anything more, Eve pulling her into the crowd, pulling her closer to her.

 

 

 

 

 

Eve dances like a teenager who thinks she might get caught, unhinged, eyes closed, like she’s getting away with something. Villanelle watches her, these quick glimpses of a woman who, besides two evenings on a mattress, tends to play it quiet, safe. Maybe she’s tipsy. Maybe she’s having a breakdown. Maybe she trusts Villanelle. Villanelle wants it to be the latter.

“Do you want another drink,” she asks, leans forward with her mouth wet on Eve’s ear.

“Sure,” Eve says, nodding, letting her pull her over to the bar, with her hand on Eve’s wrist. She loves to tug her like this, to lead her, to feel her following. There is something almost erotic about this kind of attachment, as if they are tied together.

She waits for the bartender, frowning slightly when the woman keeps going to the men all crowding around, even if they came up after Villanelle. Yes, it’s packed, it’s Friday late in Hackney, but she’s clearly favoring certain customers. She’d be distracted by the visualization in her mind of waterboarding the bartender if she didn’t hear someone come up to Eve behind her. Even with her back turned, Villanelle listens, freezing in place.

“Eve, oh my _god._ ”

“Elena?”

“Fucking hell, it’s good to see you. I thought you were still in Paris. What are you doing here?”

“Um, I…” Eve’s voice trails off, though Villanelle is sure she hasn’t said anything else.

“I’m on the worst Tinder date, he’s honestly unbearable. Keeps talking about his ex being a bitch, but he’s buying all my drinks so I’m just kind of nodding along, like sure, fine, she sounds lovely. He just ran to the loo, I was about to bail. Listen, we need to catch up. I didn’t hear what happened over there. No one will tell me a thing. I got an email saying basically 'taskforce disbanded' etcetera, went back to my old desk the next day, now it’s the usual drudgery. They said you weren’t returning. I thought maybe they’d got you doing some kind of…” The woman’s voice shifts to an exaggerated whisper. “Top secret work. Oh gosh, I should be quieter. I’m sorry, I’m a bit drunk.”

“Elena, listen, it’s kind of a weird time. I promise I will text you and we can grab coffee or something, it’s just--”

“Oh my god, are you on a date? Wait, are you still with your husband? Or did you guys...oh my god, you’re on a date. I’m so sorry, listen, I’ll leave you to it. Where is the guy, though? Is he fit?”

Villanelle finally gets her drinks from the bartender, gives her a sneer, and spins around. Eve is talking to a woman Villanelle thinks she recognizes, and she cocks her head, waiting for Eve to notice.

“Hi, can I help you,” the woman, who must be Elena, says, noticing Villanelle standing there, and then does a double take. “Oh, fuck.” Her arm wraps around Eve, pulling her back. “Fuck, Eve, _fuck_. We have to--”

Eve plants herself, shaking her head. She takes the drink from Villanelle, makes a show of taking a sip, and then holds it up. “It’s okay,” she says. “But we should really talk.”

Elena looks as though she has just been struck by a vehicle, or shown something pornographic involving her own grandmother. Her mouth hangs slightly askew, her hand rubbing her forehead. A man in a polo shirt comes up behind her, grinning as he grabs her arm.

“Hey love, sorry about that, line was donkey kong. Listen, shall we head back to mine for--”

“Yeah, date’s fucking over.” Elena says, her eyes never moving from Villanelle and Eve. “I’ll text you tomorrow, Cyril.”

His hand closes on her arm, jerking her slightly. “Uh, wait just a fucking minute--”

“Hey,” Villanelle says, stepping forward. “She said she’d text you tomorrow.”

“Who's this?” He yanks on Elena again, who tries removing his hand from her elbow. "Listen, we both know I bought everything tonight, so you owe me at least a--"

Villanelle plants her heel on his toe. "Did you hear me?"

He pulls his foot out from under hers, looking offended. "Did _you_ fucking hear _me_? Who the fuck are you?"

“Someone who will put this glass through your eye socket if you don’t fuck off.” She puts on one of her favorite glares. “I’ve broken three different penises by twisting in the right place if you want a demonstration.”

Cyril seems very perturbed by this, but also a bit upset, so he turns around, flipping them off. “Russian dyke bitch,” he spits, and then disappears into the crowd. Villanelle gives him a wave as he goes.

"Eve, he called me a 'Russian dyke bitch'. Is my outfit gay? I did want it to be gay, so I actually think that's great."

Elena stares at Villanelle, then at Eve, as if none of this just happened. “Eve, what is going on? Why are you with her?”

Eve swallows. “Maybe we should go somewhere quieter for me to explain.”

Villanelle smacks her lips, grinning. “Oh, _now_ I know why I recognize you! Didn’t I shoot at you once?”

“Yeah,” Elena says, her expression warping to disbelief. “Yeah, you absolutely fucking shot at me.”

Villanelle makes a face. “Sorry that took me so long. I have fired a lot of guns at a lot of people.”

“Okay,” Eve whispers, patting her hand. Elena’s eyes follow the gesture, widening. “Maybe we can try to tone down the assassin angle, huh?” She jerks her head up. “Elena, I would really love to explain myself upstairs. I promise you I have some really good context for everything you are witnessing.”

“Oh, I would _love_ to know the context. Really, enlighten me, please.”

 

 

 

 

 


	10. for you'll never shake me off

 

 

 

 

 

It turns out that this Elena woman lives not far from the bar, a fifteen minute walk that they cut down to ten with everyone’s sudden burst of sheer raw energy: Elena, buzzing now and shooting the occasional probing glance at the other two; Eve, marching with a determination as she keeps her focus unfailing on whatever is in front of them; Villanelle, smirking like a cat at her companions, always interested in something she cannot predict, and she surely cannot predict this stranger who seems to know too much already. Eve had pulled her aside when they’d first stepped outside the bar, pushing through the gaggle of smokers to get them far enough from Elena that the woman couldn’t hear.

“We’re not going to do anything to hurt her, okay?”

Villanelle had made a face, slightly insulted by the implication. “Why would we hurt her? Is she a violent person?”

“No, but I’m going to need to be honest with her. I used to work with Elena, and she knows who you are. I can’t outright lie to her about you or what I’ve been up to, it won’t work, trust me. So even when I give her information, it’s fine, okay? She doesn’t need to be silenced, or whatever you want to call it.” Eve’s eyebrows were raised. She was quite serious, that was clear. “Are we on the same page here?”

“Eve,” Villanelle had sighed then, surprised that she still had to make this statement after all this time. “I don’t just snap people’s necks because I feel like it. I don’t even snap people’s necks because they know things.”

“I know, but--”

“But what? When have I given you the impression that I would do something so fucking stupid? Honestly, of the two of us, you’re the one who’s been more unpredictable lately. Maybe I should be telling  _ you _ not to shoot her in the head like that Dutchman.”

Eve had given her the international symbol for ‘pipe the fuck down’ at that point, waving her hand in front of her neck and making a face. “Jesus Christ, not so loud.”

“No one on this sidewalk cares what we say or do, Eve. Unless we start necking with tongue, they’re not interested.”

“Fine.” She’d paused, seeming to be done with the discussion, only to tilt her head at Villanelle. “And that was a lucky shot. I’m not usually precise with a gun.”

“Even more impressive, then.”

Eve had frowned, but she was blushing, too, and Villanelle had thought to herself that only a certain type of person would blush at a compliment on their ability to send a bullet through a man’s cranium. 

Elena had come up at this point, arms crossed. “Look, we can just go back to mine.” She’d given Villanelle a pointed look, half an appraisal at this point. “That’s if everyone can behave themselves.”

“Absolutely,” Eve had said, nodding too many times. “We can do that. Not a problem. Right, Villanelle?”

Villanelle had sighed, rolling her eyes. “Very subtle.” She’d put her hand over her heart in a dramatic gesture. “I promise to be a docile lamb.”

Elena had taken Eve by the elbow at this point, pulling her far enough from Villanelle that she could not hear their exchange, but she watched through the haze of drifting smoke. Even from here, she could see as Eve’s expression had morphed, a bit like a sculptor was pinching her face with his fingers, from demure to belligerent to something that could be conniving. It was strange, Villanelle sometimes thought, or maybe strange wasn’t the right word, the parts of Eve she still didn’t recognize. How Eve had always created a narrative where Villanelle was the unknowable one, the mysterious one, when it was really the other woman who kept turning out to be full of craters and ditches, dangerous little trenches where Villanelle wasn’t sure she wanted to trip. Elena’s shoulders had dropped, her eyes rolled, both of them pointing fingers at each other, and then it seemed a decision was made. Eve, it appeared, had won.

And so, this is how they find themselves currently sitting in the woman’s flat, Eve and Villanelle on an older couch that seems as much held-up by the stacks of books beneath it as the shaky looking feet, Elena balanced rigidly on the edge of a stool, staring them down. A flatmate had surfaced a few minutes earlier, a girl in a pair of men’s boxers and an oversized jumper who’d padded sleepily out of her room and into the kitchen, not seeming to notice that a situation was fast brewing in her sitting room. She’s still in the kitchen now, noisily clinking dishes in a squeaky cupboard, the microwave whirring and beeping, the door to the refrigerator banging a number of times.

“Shit date, El?” the girl asks, her voice obscured by half a yawn and the wall. “I didn’t hear you come in, thought you’d be at his by now, so I’m guessing he was a real--” The girl’s head appears at the doorway, a plate with takeout containers stacked atop it in her hand, and she sees the two others who are now sitting on her couch. “Oh. Hello there.” She smiles. “I’m Tallulah. I’m usually not dressed like this, so please imagine me in something more washed. Listen, I’ve just taken the kettle off, so maybe you’d like some tea.”

“I would love some,” Villanelle says, smirking back at the girl. “How kind of you to offer.”

“We’re  _ fine _ , actually,” Elena says, giving Villanelle a look, but Tallulah is already back in the kitchen, pulling out mugs from the sounds of it. 

“Would you like some, too, Eve?” Eve shakes her head. Villanelle shrugs. “Alright, but don’t be trying to steal sips of mine.”

From the kitchen, Tallulah is humming cheerfully to herself. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“Both, please. Generously.”

“Perfect,” the girl says, emerging with a steaming mug with a little rainbow on the side. Villanelle waggles her eyebrows at the design, thanking the girl as she takes it from her.

“Well, what are you all up to, then?” Tallulah starts, but Elena is already shaking her head. “What?”

Elena gives her flatmate a look. “Yeah, sorry, talk in the morning, Lu.”

“You’re not gonna introduce me to--”

“Night, Lu.” Elena’s eyebrows skyrocket. The girl seems to cop on to something.

“Oh. Are you three, uh…” Her voice drops to a whisper, her teeth gritted. “Because if you  _ are _ , Elena, you’ve got to give me warning. I don’t have those noise-cancelling headphones anymore and you  _ know _ your walls are paper thin.”

Elena lets out a sigh of exasperation, shaking her head and kneading her brow. “No, Lu, that is not at all what’s happening. See you tomorrow.”

Tallulah makes a face, shrugging. “Fine, fine. Sorry, then.” She waves at Eve and Villanelle. “Well, night, all.”

Villanelle is smirking. “Does she think we are going to have a threesome?”

Elena’s lip curls slightly. “No.”

“It certainly seemed that way.” Villanelle leans back on the couch, stretching herself out so her arm now rests behind Eve, her foot slung up onto her knee, winking when she sees Elena blanche at the new position. “Is there a precedent for her assumption?”

Elena clears her throat. “I don’t think we’re talking about my relationships. I think someone else’s relationship is in question.” She turns to Eve. “Right, Eve?”

Eve swallows. “Like I said, I’m happy to give you some context.”

“Context, right.” Elena gestures at Villanelle, her eyes still on Eve. “Well, let’s start at the last thing I knew, which was that you were going to France. I’m guessing from who is currently sitting on my couch that things went well enough in Paris, then.”

“Well enough for  _ her _ , maybe,” Villanelle interjects. She unbuttons part of her shirt to pull it aside, revealing the scar. “She stabbed me.”

Elena blinks at the old wound, then at Eve. “Eve?”

Eve shrugs, making a face. “I did technically do that.”

“Wild child, this one,” Villanelle says, knocking Eve’s shoulder with her own, causing a bit of tea to drip onto her hand. “I think you’d call her whatever the female version of a ‘mad lad’ is.”

Elena looks at Villanelle, continuing to seem unsure of how to respond to anything she says, and then back at Eve. “And then what, you took her here, to London?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t see her for a while. I didn’t even know where she was.”

Villanelle re-buttons her shirt. “I had to heal from her attempt on my life.”

“But then we reconnected.”

“I asked her to meet me in Paris.”

“I...accepted the invitation.”

“There were some complications.”

Elena interrupts them, addressing Villanelle without necessarily looking at her. “So you still work as an assassin.”

Villanelle shakes her head. “No, I have a desk job.”

Elena rolls her eyes. “Great, cool.” 

“She’s telling the truth,” Eve tries, even as Elena shakes her head, sitting back on the stool with her back pressed to the wall. 

“Did the desk do that, then? Or maybe a rogue stapler?” Elena is gesturing at her own face, eyes on Villanelle. Ah, Villanelle realizes. Her nose must look more broken than the last time the woman saw a photo of her. 

“So that’s where things get complicated.” Eve pauses, seeming to mull this over before continuing. “Elena, are you still in a position to do a bit of research? Do you have access to MI5 databanks?”

Elena laughs. “You’re joking.” She shakes her head, still laughing harshly. “Eve, you can’t be serious.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re really going to ask me for a favor right now. I almost lost my job getting you access to her.” She jerks her head towards Villanelle, who smirks at the acknowledgement. “And you go to Paris, and then you disappear for months. No word, nothing. I’d assume you were dead but I thought I’d at least get invited to a funeral. I thought fine, maybe she’s undercover, maybe she can’t reach out, because she really wouldn’t be that ungrateful and that much of a shit friend. But it turns out you haven’t been doing top secret work or buried in a shallow grave. You’ve been on some kind of weird...honeymoon? Breakdown? I know it wasn’t dire enough to warrant you saying ‘fuck it’ to everyone who might care. And now the person we’ve spent ages tracking down because she is - let me remind you, maybe you’ve forgotten by now - a trained killer with a record, is sitting on my fucking sofa, drinking my  _ fucking _ tea.”

Villanelle takes a noisy sip of tea. Eve looks at her, and then at Elena, her brow furrowing.

“Elena, I really am sorry.”

“I mean, it’s fine. It’s done. I will admit it is...questionably sexy, in its own twisted way. But I’m not going to do you any more favors.”

Eve takes a deep breath, rearranging herself on the couch. Villanelle watches her carefully - Eve’s folding her hands on her lap, crossing her legs, getting ready for a play of some kind. She’s good at this, Villanelle realizes. She hasn’t seen Eve negotiate like this before, but it seems she’s more skilled than she lets on, “I wonder if you might reconsider, though.”

Elena snorts. “Not a chance.”

Eve’s tongue runs over her teeth, letting her face fall; she’s going to try something else, it appears. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

“Someone’s always been trying to kill you.” Elena’s finger points at Villanelle. “ _ Her _ , literally. Right there.”

Villanelle finishes her tea with a gulp. “Oh, I didn’t want to kill her.”

“Well, you could have fooled me.” Elena finally makes eye contact with Villanelle, staring her down. “Are you together?”

“Are you asking me or Eve?”

“You. Maybe you’ll give me a straight answer.”

Villanelle glances briefly at Eve, but there’s no hint there as to what she’s meant to say. “If you mean are we on the same side now, I suppose, yes, in a way. If you’re asking if we’re involved in a sexual or romantic sense…” She raises her eyebrows, shrugs. “Whatever you’re thinking is probably accurate.”

“Oh my god. I knew it. I _ knew _ it.” Elena’s back to Eve now. “I knew you were so into her.”

Villanelle grins at Eve. “Were you that obvious?”

Elena nods. “She was. Stupidly obvious.” This to Eve: “Does Carolyn know?”

Eve shakes her head fervently. “God, no.”

“She probably does, she’s just not letting  _ you _ know that. Don’t underestimate her, Eve.”

“I’m sure she would have shut this down if she had a problem with it.”

“‘This’ being whatever you two are...doing.” Elena gestures between Eve and Villanelle, and then sighs. “So what’s your plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s next for you? How long do you anticipate this midlife crisis lasting?”

“I’m not old enough for a midlife crisis.”

Elena makes a face. “Aren’t you, though?”

Eve clears her throat, ignoring that quip. “Even if I was, that’s not what this is.”

Elena’s tone is unfazed. “Married woman with desk job runs off to the continent to have complete breakdown, play dangerous games, explore her sexuality. Yes, it’s perfectly normal and expected.”

Eve says nothing, her teeth working her bottom lip in concentration. Villanelle smirks, flicking her nails against the empty mug. “She’s got you there.”

“You should have a plan,” Elena says, eyes on Eve. “I don’t know if you’re still taking advice from people, or if you’ve gone entirely off the deep end at this point. But you really need to know what you’re doing here. You don’t work for the kind of people who let you just ‘feel a situation out’, you know?”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you sure? Then you’re being really stupid, actually. I mean if you care about  _ her,  _ that is.” She jerks her head towards Villanelle. “MI6 is still trying to track her down, aren’t they? Why would you bring her right to them?”

“They don’t know she’s here.”

Elena snorts, rolling her eyes. “What, you think they stop keeping an eye on you because you ask nicely? Oh god, I’ve just realized...they probably know you’re here right now, in my flat. If I am in any way accused of harboring a known criminal, I swear to God, Eve--”

“Yes, maybe I’m being stupid. But I’ve been this stupid for  _ months, _ and no one has shown up at my door trying to do anything about it.”

“Didn’t you just say a minute ago that someone tried to kill you? Have I had a complete stroke?”

“That’s why I was hoping for some help. I need to know who did it, and why they would want me killed, especially if that happens to be MI6.”

“MI6 might want you killed? And you’re here? In my flat?” Elena looks up at the ceiling, silently making the sign of the cross. “Well, Elena, it’s been a lovely run.” Her eyes drop to Eve. “If whoever keeps trying doesn’t manage to kill you, then I will, I swear to god.”

“I’m really not trying to endanger--”

“But you are, right now. By being  _ here _ .” Elena gets to her feet. “Actually, now that I think of it, you should leave.”

Eve looks at her with those sad eyes of hers, though Villanelle isn’t quite sure if it’s sadness or something else she’s putting on. “Elena, please.”

“Please, what? I can’t help you. Call Kenny. He has a higher tolerance for this sort of thing.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Elena shakes her head. “No. We fell out. And if you were decent, you would have asked me about that, and maybe offered some help in how to handle it, but you aren’t, and you didn’t, so.” She points towards the door, sighing. “Please, before I start feeling like a guilty bitch.”

Villanelle hands her the rainbow mug. “Thank you for the tea, and sorry again for shooting at you.” She shakes Elena’s limp hand. “You have a very nice place. I like your couch.”

 

 

 

 

 

They are in Villanelle’s rented studio flat by not quite three in the morning, Villanelle peeling open the chocolates that the host has left on the kitchen table, then collapsing onto the bed, just to its right. The flat is a single room, not counting the tiny closet containing a shower, toilet, and no sink, which seems to assume the resident will spit their toothpaste onto the dirty dishes in the kitchen. Eve makes no comment on its size, which throws Villanelle; part of the reason she chose this place was not just its convenience to the bar, but the fact it was small and wouldn’t allow them to avoid each other in any sense, would force them to achieve the kind of intimacy Villanelle would like to joke about so she can watch Eve’s reaction, but instead Eve says nothing, getting herself a water, standing at the window where the yellow dim of the street buzzes softly below, her back to the other woman.

“Can you believe that?” Eve mutters, taking a sip, one hand falling onto her hip at an angle. Villanelle chews softly, waiting for her to continue. “I mean, Elena was completely aware of what we were doing in the organization. She knows I was going after you. She helped me fucking _ find _ you, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know why now she’d act like I’m being the crazy one for trying to finish the job.”

Villanelle gives her a look, though Eve cannot see it. “Is this what you call finishing the job?”

“You know what I mean. And then she asks us to leave--”

“I think it is because you weren’t being a very good friend.”

Eve turns, cocking her head as her eyes meet Villanelle’s. “And how is that?”

“She did you a favor, and you gave her the cold shoulder.”

“What did she expect, detailed emails?” Eve sputters, rolling her eyes. “I had a lot going on.”

“You seemed to have a lot of time to reach out if you wanted to.” 

“It would have been dangerous to tell her anything.”

“It was dangerous to correspond with me, but you did it anyway.” She snaps off another piece of chocolate with the side of her mouth. “I think the reason she was upset was because of how you slighted her. You didn’t follow the rules of a good friendship.”

Eve laughs at this, though Villanelle had no intention of being funny. “Don’t fuck with me right now.”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re lecturing me about the rules of friendships?”

Villanelle stops chewing. Swallows. “I have a friend.”

“I don’t count.”

She sets down the chocolate, sitting up straighter. “We have never been friends, Eve.”

“Right, we went straight from enemies to fuckbuddies.”

Villanelle licks her lips. “Am I your fuckbuddy?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about labels.”

“‘Fuckbuddy’ is a label, though.”

“Do you want me to use another term?”

Villanelle says nothing for a minute, something turning over in her stomach, a new feeling. “No,” she says, perhaps more coldly than she should, but Eve seems unbothered by her change of tone, finishing her water and setting the glass into the sink. Villanelle silently decides she will later spit her toothpaste into it.

Eve kneads at her temple, her hand scraping through her hair. She’s muttering. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“You’re very upset by this,” Villanelle says, watching Eve lie down next to her. The woman collapses into the mattress, her limbs falling to either side of her.

“She said I’m having a midlife crisis.”

“You might be.”

Eve stares at her. “Seriously?”

Villanelle shrugs. “You told me when we met in Paris that you felt like you were losing your mind. You wanted to be broken in half. You wanted to be obliterated. I think maybe the part that bothers you is that you don’t want someone else to notice that, someone who isn’t me.” She gives her a look. “And you don’t like being reminded that you’re a shitty friend.”

“A shitty friend.” Eve laughs to herself, but there is no mirth in it. “Right.”

“Friendships can be hard.”

Eve’s expression is suddenly unreadable, her features grey in the dark. “You killed my friend.”

“I know.”

“Do you understand what that feels like?”

Villanelle blinks. She is still examining the other woman, hoping that something will shift, that there will be a hint, but Eve betrays nothing. “Yes.”

Eve’s voice is cool. “No, you don’t.”

“Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do. Maybe it doesn’t matter.”

“He was a good person, you know.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“He has a daughter. She’ll never know him.” There is a long pause, Eve staring at her like a challenge, a very singular one. “I’ll probably have to tell her that someday. That her father was a good person, that I was the last one to see him alive and he didn’t deserve what happened that night.”

“Was his death about you, Eve? You’re certainly making it about you.”

“Didn’t you kill him because of me?”

“Because you sent him into a trap? I think that’s for you to decide.”

“You did it, though.” Eve huffs, her frustration palpable and yet still entirely under the surface, a seething kind of emotion, strong enough that Villanelle can smell it like a musk. “You still killed him.”

“What are you doing, Eve?” She gets no response from the other woman. “You knew what I was when you came here. None of this is new information.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“I don’t make excuses for what I do, or what I’ve done in the past. They have happened. I did them. I cannot go back and change them, and I wouldn’t if I was given the opportunity. I am not holding you against your will. I did not force you to come here. You knew everything, and you still chased after me, and you still wanted this.” She sets her jaw. “You are the one looking for an excuse.”

Eve closes her eyes before looking at her again. “Did you enjoy killing him?”

Ah, well. She liked the quick work of a small knife. A sharp blade that knew how to be swift and subtle. And that night she had been full of a wild, electric energy that had pulsed like an orgasm out to every end of her, perfectly timed with the music throbbing, the particular musty note of bodies roused awake by drugs or sex or both, their damp flesh pressing all around her, letting her pass like a god through peons, her stride long, her chin high, all of her balanced on a fine and terrifying point at the concept of being close to this strange woman who pursued her. But had she enjoyed it? Enjoyment is such a specific word. Such a precise feeling, a feeling she has only recently learned to recognize, perhaps because she didn’t feel it before.

“I don’t know.”

Eve snorts, a horrible sound. “You did.”

“I don’t know that I did.”

“How could you not?”

Villanelle isn’t sure she wants to continue this. She is not enamoured with this uncertainty anymore. She is not charmed by it. She swings her feet over the side, starts to slide off the bed, but Eve’s grip on her wrist is so tight it verges on pain.

“You’d enjoy killing Niko, wouldn’t you?”

She tries to stand, but Eve tugs her down, holds her firmly in place. Her nails dig into Villanelle’s flesh. 

“Answer me,” Eve says, her voice hardly a whisper. Villanelle turns around.

“I wouldn’t have any reason to kill him. I’ve told you that before.”

Eve still will not release her. “Did you enjoy what you did to Anna’s husband?”

“Did you enjoy what you did to that man on the island?” Villanelle feels Eve’s grip on her tighten even more; she’s certain that she’s drawing blood. Still, she continues, not asking her to stop. A silent moment passes between them, Eve’s eyes searching her, and Villanelle nods her consent. “Go ahead. You want it messy.”

“Yes,” Eve whispers.

“Did you feel elated when you shot him in the head on your first try?”

“Yes,” Eve nods, her voice low and shaky. Villanelle lies back into the pillow, lets Eve crawl over her, her knees on either side of Villanelle’s hips, her other hand now tight around Villanelle’s other wrist, too, her nails like ten knives, sharp as blades. She can feel the twitch of Eve’s hips as she rocks against her, ever so subtly. Perhaps she thinks Villanelle won’t notice. She does.

“Did you like the weight of the gun in your hand?” Twitch. “Were you proud that you didn’t even tremble?” Twitch. Villanelle watches Eve chin dip, then rise up as her eyes close. “Do you remember the sound his skull made when you opened it up? It burst just like a fruit, remember?” The twitch becomes a more decided grind. “Do you hear that sound at night before you fall asleep?” A slight grunt. “Do you wish you had gotten out of the car to see what it looked like? I bet you’ve pictured the mess of it. I bet you think about how it would feel on your hands if you ran them through the carnage.” Eve’s grinding harder now. “Do you wish you’d killed him another way? With a knife or a scalpel, maybe. Or maybe you wish it was you.” More. And harder, too. “Do you think about me with that knife at your chest? Do you think about what I could do with that knife?” The smallest moan escapes Eve’s lips, her hips more frantic now, her nails digging deep enough that Villanelle can feel the wet beginning to drip down her arm, blood where before it had been slick.

“Do you want me to do that to you, Eve? Open you up and let you bleed into my hands?”

Another moan, a hitched breath. Villanelle feels the damp against her unbuttoned pants, a trail of wet where Eve grinds herself there now.

“Do you love what I am capable of more than you love me?”

Eve stops. She freezes in place, her hips still and her grip on Villanelle’s wrists suddenly weak, her hands shaking noticeably as she releases her.

Villanelle puts her palm up to her own face. Licks the blood from her wrist with just the tip of her tongue, watching Eve’s look of ecstasy now replaced with uncertainty, surprise, as if she has been caught out. Guilt, even.

“There,” she says, eyeing the other woman. It’s something else now, all of it. The shift is palpable. “There it is.”

“There is what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t, Villanelle.” Eve gets to her feet, pulling her dress back into place. Villanelle looks down at herself, sees the streak of dark in a straight line from pelvic bone up to navel. By the light of her phone, she can tell that it is brownish blood, dark and muddy. Eve turns over her shoulder, seeing what she’s left. “Shit.”

“I didn’t know you were still--”

“Jesus Christ,” Eve groans, rooting through her purse. “I’m not that fucking old. It can still happen.”

“My mother was young when she stopped.”

Eve’s hands go still. She does not look at Villanelle, her eyes on her bag. Villanelle is thinking about her mother, which she does not usually do, which she does not usually enjoy, but she is seeing her mother as she was towards the end, yellow and green, bloated, her face probably not dissimilar to Villanelle’s now with her broken nose and her bruised eyes. She is most her mother’s child when she is wounded, in pain. So it is. Eve has not said a word, and so Villanelle continues.

“But maybe that’s because she was sick.”

Eve licks her lips, finally glances over at where Villanelle runs her fingertip through the dark trail on her middle. “Did she get better?”

“No,” Villanelle says. She rubs her fingers together. “She died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t know her.”

“I’m sorry for you, for what it must have felt like.” 

“What did it feel like, Eve?”

Eve doesn’t answer her, and instead drops her bag. “I don’t have anything. Do you?”

Villanelle shakes her head. “There’s a Tesco towards the station.” She slides off the bed, tapping the other woman’s shoulder when Eve starts looking for her jacket. “No, I’ll go. Stay here.”

“But--”

“No, Eve.” She pulls her long duster on over her shirt, takes the keys. “I’ll be back.”

Out in the street, the air is yellow and damp, wet brick glittering under the lamps. It’s started to rain slightly, the misty choking kind that makes London feel like an illness people happen to live inside. She chances a look up at the window, but Eve’s outline isn’t there. Why would it be?

 

 

 

 

 

Tesco’s playing that fake pop music they have on constant rotation, the kind that isn’t licensed and always vaguely sounds like something else. It’s disorienting. She doesn’t care for it. The white light is harsh as ever, and when she catches her reflection in the freezer door, she can see that her makeup has wiped off enough that the dark bruises under her eyes are visible again, the swollen mess of her nose in plain sight. She rubs at her face, and the blood that has dried along her wrist flakes onto her cheek. 

A group of girls in club dresses, one with her heels off and hooked under her finger as she smacks barefoot down the aisle, eye her, whispering to each other in alarm as they pass. Yes, she does look monstrous, or so says the slightly warped face staring back from above the Cornettos. She’s standing at the ice cream, thinking about what Eve likes. 

What does Eve like?

Eve likes what Villanelle represents. Eve likes what Villanelle does. But is there more to it than that? When Villanelle no longer represents danger, when she no longer kills people for a living, will Eve still like that person? That is implying there is a person beneath it all, of course.

She remembers her training. The cold press of cement against her knees even through the layer of fabric, same as the rest down the line of that long bunker, freezing water thrown on them in cycles until they learned not to shake. You are nothing, they told her. Forget the ones you belonged to or loved. Forget who raised you. You have no identity. Kill your past if that’s what it requires.

But Villanelle wasn’t like the others, the ones who struggled to loosen the nooses of family from their necks, the allegiances and the friendships and the lovers. She had always been alone. Even when her mother was alive, she had not belonged to her, the strange child who desired such strange things, who did not make friends and spent so much time alone in corners. Her mother never seemed to know what to do with her. She would not hold her, or pick her up. She did not kiss her. She rarely spoke to her, and only to ask her to fetch something. The girl called Oksana would watch, unblinking, and her mother would watch her back, and this they could do for hours on the floor of that apartment, no words passing between them, no love, but something else, something unnameable, that Villanelle would remember as comforting, because it was always the same.

“Mommy issues,” she mutters, disgusted with herself. “Enough.”

It’s never enough, though. Because for the single time in a year when she thinks of her mother, there are a hundred when she thinks on other women. When things had ended with Anna, when it had gotten vicious and miserable and so full of confusion, she’d had a moment of clarity, somewhere between the removal of the organ and the discarding of it: Anna had wanted an escape. She had wanted the floor to drop out from under her, she had wanted to let go. Villanelle had been the door, and the fall, and eventually, she would see this when Anna had placed the gun up under her chin, Villanelle was the ground Anna hit. Nothing more, nothing less.

When there were other women, Villanelle was the tool that got them off, that thrilled them until their need was met. And she was good at this, and she was satisfied with it, just as she was satisfied with the contracts she filled and the kills she drew out and the way Konstantin would tell her, outright or not, that she had done a good job.

Will she destroy Eve, too, just like the others were destroyed? Is that what Eve wants? And Villanelle always wishes to give Eve what she wants.

No, she thinks. I want something nice. I want it to be good and normal and nice.

But somewhere Anna is buried, or better yet, spread on the wind in white ash. Somewhere Konstantin was dragged off, embalmed, lowered into a family plot and covered in gravel, a stone with his name, a low grate to frame him where his daughter can sit and look down at where he will disintegrate under her toes. If they could, would they rise up and remind her that she cannot be good, that she cannot be normal, that she cannot be nice? Perhaps she will always be the ground that catches the body, breaks its fall, snaps its spine, splinters bones into organs and takes the last breath. A deadly thing.

She doesn’t want to be just a thing, though, and worse, she doesn’t want to be a thing that someone must decide if they are willing to be wounded by. In the glass in front of her, the bruise twists as she frowns.

You’re at your worst when you’re like this, she thinks. Childish, a whiny little predator. 

This is the most she has let any of these thoughts out the cabinet of her mind in months. Maybe a year, at least. Konstantin, locked away, unvisited. Her mother, so rarely considered unless reminded, and even then she can quickly slam the drawer closed again, forget she ever saw the woman’s face. She allows her brain to turn blank again, a clean slate.

She slides open the case, considers the Twisters before settling on a box of Magnums. Tucks it under her arm with the tampons.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s raining harder when she steps outside, and by the time she rounds the corner to their street, the hair that has fallen out of her bun is clinging to her face and neck. She has pulled the bag under her jacket so the boxes don’t soak and fall apart, but this has not stopped the rain from soaking her, too, and she knows her makeup has run all the way off, and whatever predatory air she usually gives off has wilted to something else, and as she takes the stairs up to the flat two at a time, she is sure every squeak of her wet shoes on the tile is a sad reminder that she is not here to take what she wants like a hare in the jaws of a dog; no, she is just a girl returning from an errand, another lonely smitten person hoping that the favors they do are enough.

Eve rolls over when she opens the door, and Villanelle has been guessing at what might be waiting for her: apology, a slim chance; some petition for discussing “boundaries”, hopefully not; more likely silence or some hot physical thing to keep them from having to talk about it. What she sees is none of those things. Eve stares at her through the dark, clothed on top of the duvet, and watches Villanelle slide the locks in place, shift off her shoes, stand still and stare right back.

“I know what you are,” Eve says finally, after a long silence. “And you know what I am, too. That’s why we haven’t killed each other yet.”

“I could never kill you, Eve.”

“I know.” 

“So what do you want to do here?” She sniffs, licking at the rain droplets that are still sitting above her lip. 

Eve gets to her feet, the question forgotten. “Jesus, you’re soaked.” When she steps close enough, her hand goes to Villanelle’s arm. Villanelle is very cold now, and so she is shivering. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s raining,” Villanelle says plainly, teeth chattering. “I got wet.”

“Take off those clothes. We need to hang them up on the heater.” Eve raises an eyebrow when she doesn’t move. “I’ve seen you naked before.”

“No, it’s just...” She takes the Tesco bag out. “The ice cream will melt.”

“You got ice cream?” Eve is smiling to herself when she takes the box of Magnums from her, crouches to place it in the mini fridge in the corner. “That was thoughtful of you.”

“It’s what people do. Nice things.” She lets Eve step towards her again, lets her remove the duster from her shoulders and pull her arms out for her. Everything feels slow and deliberate right now, though it could just be Villanelle, her pulse like a fist in her throat. “They do nice things for people they like.”

“Do they?” Eve starts unbuttoning Villanelle’s shirt, her brow furrowing as she sees the gooseflesh across her collarbone. Her breath is so warm where it hits Villanelle’s skin. Villanelle wants to suffocate herself in Eve’s carbon dioxide. Such a good way to die. Deprive herself of everything but Eve’s exhalations.

“Yes.” She thinks they do. She would allow herself to be corrected.

Eve’s got the duster thrown over her arm, and now she takes Villanelle’s shirt off, too, leaves her in her bra and her pants. Her fingers brush down her side, lingering next to Villanelle’s scar, the one Eve made only months before. She’s avoided it until now, seeming almost strategic in how her hands have traveled everywhere else, and Villanelle has worked hard to keep her away from it, twisting in place in certain moments or covering it when it’s light enough out to see. “It’s healed well.”

“I had a good doctor.”

Eve’s fingers skate the perimeter of the raised white skin, the even line where Mother sewed Villanelle back up, the place so many thoughts and emotions had rushed to before, the place that Villanelle thought might define everything else to come. “I’ve never seen it up close.”

“I haven’t let you.”

“So you’re letting me now?” She looks up at her, a question, and Villanelle nods. Eve drops to her knees, the wet clothes smacking on the floor where she lets them fall, and she puts herself at eye level with Villanelle’s navel, her fingers running the length of the scar as if trying to draw something out, then replacing them with her lips. Villanelle breathes in sharply, feeling the contrast of Eve’s hot mouth on her cold flesh, still clammy and damp, and holds herself still.

When Eve pulls away, she looks up at Villanelle, her expression new, something like devotion, and Villanelle’s stomach ties itself into an unsolvable knot. She says nothing as Eve’s fingers begin to unbutton her trousers, draw the soaked fabric down her legs, careful not to yank too hard. Eve has never been tender with her before. Villanelle watches in wonder, so unsure of everything. It’s a foreign country, this room now, and she has no language, no customs, nothing.

“What did it feel like?”

“When?”

Eve’s hand comes up to run over the scar again. “When I stabbed you.”

“What do you think?”

Eve sits back on her feet, her knees touching Villanelle’s toes, a pose almost for prayer. “In my mind, I used to think you didn’t feel pain. I couldn’t imagine it somehow.”

“That’s all it was,” she says. Her hand covers Eve’s where it now cups her hipbone. “Pain.”

“What do you feel besides pain?”

She frowns at the question, and Eve takes this opportunity to stand back up, pull her gently towards the bed. All this gentleness tonight! Villanelle isn’t sure what to do with it. She has never been this way before, and there is no route to follow. Only Eve’s fingers, lacing with hers, pulling her down into the softness of the mattress, her hands covering her shoulders to run the ridges of her shivers, to try and warm her until she is under the duvet.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to tell me about the things you feel. The things that aren’t pain.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Eve looks at her, demand in her tone, insistence. “I want to know.”

“Is this because I am a psychopath?” That would make sense, she thinks. An interview. Eve could be gathering data in this way, feeling out her edges.

“No.”

“So why, then?”

“Because I’ve never asked before.”

She stares at her, blinks in the grey light of the room, her eyes only half-adjusted, Eve’s face clear as close as it is now, and yet so hard to understand, her expression so strange and new. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you feel pleasure?”

“Yes.” She almost cocks an eyebrow at this. “Obviously. You’ve seen that firsthand.”

“Jealousy?”

“Yes.”

“What does that feel like?”

“Like my insides are being torn out. Like I should rip something open to make it go away.”

“Hatred?”

“That’s strong.”

“But you can dislike someone.”

“Yes.”

“And you can strongly dislike someone.”

“Yes.”

“So could you hate someone?”

“What does hate feel like?” She looks at her. “To you, Eve?”

Eve pauses, seeming to think on this. Her bottom lip disappears into her mouth, combed by her teeth. “If I hate someone enough, I want to kill them.”

“Do you need to hate someone to kill them?”

Eve’s answer this time is immediate. “No, I don’t. What about happiness?”

“What about it?”

“Do you feel happiness?”

She swallows. “I don’t know. I enjoy things. Is that the same thing?”

“What do you feel when you complete a job?”

“Satisfied.”

“What about when you get praised?”

“Satisfied.”

“When you’re with me, and things are good?”

“Everything.”

Eve’s mouth twitches. “Everything?”

She’s frustrated now, no longer quite so wide-eyed for this conversation. Eve is pushing her whether she knows it or not, though Villanelle suspects she is very, very aware. “I am not good with words.”

“Yes, you are.”

She grits her teeth. “Not at describing what you’re talking about. I can’t describe what it feels like. It’s just...everything.”

“Is it good or bad?”

“Neither.”

“How can it be neither?”

“Because it’s more than that.”

“More than good or bad?”

“You’re making me feel like an idiot, you know.”

Eve looks as though she is about to say something, but she is silent, her mouth half-open, enough that Villanelle could reach over and rest a finger between her lips if she wanted to. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

“Do you feel love, Villanelle?”

“Do you?”

Eve doesn’t answer. She closes her eyes, smirks to herself, turns over. Villanelle shifts closer, pressing up against Eve’s spine. This is a place she is more familiar with, she thinks, feeling comfortable again: her hand gripping Eve’s waist, that pull and press to steer things ahead.

“You know, I’m almost completely naked in this bed right now, and you are asking me to describe things that humans generally agree are very difficult to describe in words.”

Eve looks over her shoulder, that smirk still there. “And?”

“What is your game, Eve?”

“No game.”

“There must be, and I don’t think I’ve been told the rules. I think I might also be losing. Since my clothes are currently sitting in a puddle on the floor, probably getting a bit musty.”

“Shit,” Eve grunts, sitting up and pushing herself off the bed, grabbing the clothes and disappearing into the bathroom. “Sorry,” she says, re-emerging. Her front is soaked, so she pulls off her t-shirt, something she must have changed into while Villanelle was out.

“Why are you apologizing?”

Eve gets a look on her face, crouches next to the bed so she’s at eye level with Villanelle. Takes Villanelle’s hand and wraps it around her own throat. “You should make me sorry. Sorry until I’m unconscious, even.”

She can feel Eve’s pulse under her fingers. The heat of her skin there, the gentle twitch and flex of her tendons where they lift her head from her body. So precarious is the neck. She’s always thought that: the most vulnerable part of the body, everything so sensitive and close to the surface. Yet she knows her hand trembles where Eve’s palm presses down, tries to curl her grip tighter. Villanelle resists.

"I don't think I should."

Eve seems taken aback. "Why?"

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Eve frowns. “How many times have I told you that I don’t need you to hold back for me?”

She sits up, yanking her hand away. “What makes you think I’m holding back because I’m not actively hurting you? That implies my natural state is a predator.”

“I’ve said, I know what you--”

“What I am is not who I am, Eve. Cliche as that sounds.” She gets to her feet, head pounding for no reason she can discern.

Eve’s voice is smaller. “Fine. I know who you are, too.”

“And who is that, Eve? Who am I under everything I’ve done? Do you even know?”

“You don’t let me close enough to know.”

“You have gotten closer to me than anyone I have ever allowed into my life. Yet you still act like the fact I’m not making you bleed on a daily basis is me withholding.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t understand.” Villanelle can hear her pulse in her temples, her eye twitching. She steps to the window, aware she is naked and the sky is turning grey with dawn, aware someone could see her, aware of nothing but this furious ball of heat in her chest that keeps flaring with every word Eve stumbles through. “I have done everything right. I have followed all your rules.”

“Whose rules?”

“You, normal people. People who sit at a desk and go home and microwave a meal and don’t know how to waterboard someone.”

“You know how to waterboard someone?”

“It’s a basic fucking concept, Eve.” She spins, catching her breath. “I am trying to be normal. To be good.”

“Why?” And Eve’s voice is harder than it’s ever been now, something mineral in nature, sharp enough to leave a mark. “Why the fuck would you want to be normal?”

“Because that’s what you deserve.”

“You don’t know what I deserve.”

“Fine, then because I want to be normal. To try to be normal with you.”

“Why? Why would you ever want that? Do you know what normalcy is? It kills anything good. It doesn’t matter how much you care, or even how good the sex is. Eventually you will become mundane to each other. You get bored. You can predict everything, and happiness is predictable, and then happiness is boring, and then you’re not happy, because you’re trapped. And it doesn’t matter how promising it all was, because now it’s all fucked and you’re sick of each other.” Eve takes a deep breath, her chest heaving. “I don’t even want to be happy, Villanelle. I don’t even want that anymore. Because happiness gets boring, too.”

Villanelle doesn’t say anything for a while. This tirade seems to have exhausted Eve; she stands before her, panting slightly, her arms shaking, and Villanelle would reach out to her in any other circumstance but not now. Now she narrows her eyes, stills herself and watches her. Finally, she licks her lips.

“So what do you prefer?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t. You seem to think the opposite of happiness is me having rough sex with you and us, what...fighting with each other? Fighting with other people, maybe? I’ve grown kind of  _ unthrilled _ with all these near-death encounters we keep having, but that’s probably the only thing keeping you interested in me, isn’t it?”

Eve runs her fingers through her hair. As usual. “No.”

“You know what? You should probably decide what you want before we see each other again. Instead of asking for things you don’t understand the weight of.”

"I know what I'm asking for!"

"No, you don't."

"Well, neither do you."

"Fine." She starts pulling her clothes from her bag, a fresh pair of trousers, a silk shirt, buttoning it quickly but with enough time for Eve to stop her, to ask her to stay, but she doesn’t. Eve stands as though paralyzed, observing her in silence. Finally, she pulls on her wet duster, uncomfortably cold as it slides up her dry sleeves, clings to her wrists, and gives Eve a look.  “I’m going for a walk. You can go back to yours, if you want. Do whatever you think is best.”

And Eve is still silent when Villanelle leaves the flat for the second time that early morning, the sky a little brighter now, the rain let up to another nasty mist, and this time, though she does not turn to look, Eve standing at the window to watch her go, arms crossed, brow furrowed, eyes wet, maybe, if Villanelle had noticed and tried to discern. But she doesn’t, and won’t.   
  


 

 

 

 

Something in her duster starts buzzing as she walks. It catches her off-guard, since she had left her phone on the pillow next to Eve, a gesture of trust in spite of everything, but she fishes into the pocket, sees it is the old burner she bought before the Netherlands.

“Hello?”

“Oksana. You didn’t contact me with a new number. I’ve had to use this one.”

“Sorry Mother,” she says. “I’ve been busy.”

“I thought for sure you’d want to know about what we found on that island of yours. It’s actually quite urgent.”

“Sure.”

“Oksana.” Mother pauses, her tone changing to concern. “Oksana, is there something wrong?”

“No,” she lies.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Something’s wrong. A mother knows, I think you would say.”

“Well, it’s five in the morning, Mother. I’m not at my sharpest.”

“It’s more than that, and I’ve been trying you since last night.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Has something happened?”

She stops walking in the middle of the sidewalk, steps aside on the empty street to press her back against the brick wall. “I need to know you aren’t making me look like a fucking fool, Mother.”

Mother sighs, though she sounds more sad than disappointed. “I thought that had been resolved.”

“People seem to think I’m crazy for trusting you.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re too helpful.”

“I see. Do you think I’m too helpful?”

“I think that if you meant me harm you had a lot of better opportunities to fuck with me when I was in that chalet of yours. Or literally any other time I’ve been vulnerable where you knew my location. Doesn’t seem to make sense that you’d be out for me now.”

“Who’s told you I mean you harm?”

“No one.”

“Have they implied it?”

“Not really. They just think you have a lot of power for one doctor.”

“That’s interesting. I think anyone who’s been with our organization would know that a doctor could amass a great deal of power without trying.” Mother pauses again. “Oksana, I will not do you any harm. I am trying to protect you.”

“I’ve been defending you. If I’m wrong, if I really  _ can’t  _ trust you, that’s going to be very bad for both of us.” 

“I am well aware.”

“As long as you understand that.” She sighs, kneads her temple. “Mother, I think something is wrong with me.”

There is genuine concern in Mother’s voice, or at least a very good imitation of it. “What’s happened, Oksana?”

She waits to respond, her thumb between her teeth. “I don’t feel right.”

“Are you unwell?”

“Things have gotten complicated.”

“With you and Eve?”

“Yes, and with everything else. Everything is complicated.”

“Are you with her now?”

“I’m in London. She’s…” But what is Eve, and what would she ever say to Mother? She can’t even say it to herself. “She’s there. I’m visiting for the weekend.”

“That’s convenient.”

She makes a face. “Is it?”

“Oksana, I am calling you for a specific reason. I thought I’d hear from you sooner, but I can’t wait any longer. I will send along a car.”

She freezes. “What, now?”

“To the coordinates where you’re staying. I need you both here immediately, you and Eve.”

“In Switzerland? I’m not sure that’s going to be immediate, especially if we have to climb a few mountains.”

“I have a plane, of course. And not to my chalet, no. I’m just outside Lucerne at the moment.” Mother pauses. “I think it is best if I wait to explain when you arrive.”

“Is this about what you found?”

“That, and more. As I said, please bring Eve with you. That much is vital.”

“Okay, okay,  _ fine _ .” She lets out a groan. “God, this is just what I fucking need today.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your time with Eve.”

“I mean, it’s going to shit, so whatever. This is probably what I deserve.” She picks up the pace, turning the corner onto their street. “She’s going to take some convincing. If she’s even still there, she’ll think we’re getting executed and refuse to get in the car.”

“Then you’ll have to use your gift for getting people to trust you, Oksana. I would hope she trusts you by now. If that isn’t the case, then she doesn’t deserve you.”

She almost rolls her eyes. “You are the only one who would ever say that, Mother.”

“Very few people deserve you, Oksana. I hope she is one of them. I know how much you care for her.”

 

 

 

 

 


	11. equally strange and equally real

 

 

 

 

 

Half of her is shocked that Eve is still there. The other half, the half that is desperately in love and stupid, very fucking stupid, Villanelle thinks, is leaking with joy, sticky and disgusting and surely spilling out the corners of the grin she strikes before she can stop herself.

“Well,” she says, closing the door to the flat behind her. “Hello again.” Eve’s hair is wet -- she must have showered, the steam fogged up on the windows, and is that the imprint of a hand against the window by the bed, as if someone had stood and pressed their palm there, waiting, willing someone else to return?

“Do you plan on storming out for a third time?” Eve’s tone is heavy with sarcasm. She’s in a black turtleneck, tucked into high-waisted black jeans. Villanelle stares at her for a moment, taking in this slight evolution of Eve’s usual style. It’s the cut of the jeans, she realizes, the waist and the fit of the leg. Eve usually hides herself in her clothing, drapes it in a way that makes her shoulders seem less square, her spine less straight, masking the outline of her body so it’s difficult to tell what shape she might really take. And she tends towards the frumpy, if Villanelle were to assign a word to it. Her style is pure frump. Usually unkempt, rushed, unsure of itself. But this turtleneck is tight - Jil Sander, Villanelle wonders, and she’ll check the tag later if she gets to take it off her - and shows the full form of Eve, and the jeans are perfectly fitted, not the oddly cut high street nightmares she usually has on. Villanelle has already noticed that Eve wears dresses for their occasions, a secret new uniform for the moments between them. Now her everyday style is changing too, subtly, just enough that Villanelle can trace her body with her eyes instead of her hands. She has to swallow down the knot in her throat to respond, stop herself from the urge to shake her head as if dislodging the distraction.

“Quietly leaving the flat is not storming out.”

“I’m just wondering if I should pack you a snack for next time.”

“I can buy my own snacks, thank you.” She watches Eve’s face for a hint; the other woman crosses her arms, her hip tilting sharply. Villanelle could cut her own throat on the angle of Eve’s hip. She wishes she’d let her try. 

And then Eve’s shoulders drop, and she sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“What we said, what had you stalking back into the night.”

“Early morning.”

“Alright,” Eve says, tongue roaming her teeth. “Early morning, then.”

“And I didn’t stalk. Am I Jack the Ripper?”

“I’m trying to apologize.”

“I can see that.”

“So why are you being combative?”

Because this feels good, Villanelle wants to say. Because these quick little matches feel better than the long drawn-out moments when you tell me something I don’t want to hear, and if you’re sparring with me with that spark in your eye and that bit in your teeth, I can convince myself that you feel the same.

“Fine.” Villanelle plunges her hands into her pockets. “I accept your apology.”

Eve looks at her for a while, saying nothing. Villanelle nearly misses the expectation in her expression. “And?”

“And what? I’m not apologizing. I am not sorry for anything I said. Everything I said was true.”

“Everything I said was true, too, but I’m still apologizing for it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m sorry for  _ how _ it was said.”

Villanelle considers this. She did not know you apologized for things like tone or circumstance; she thought it was just lies, intent, cruelty. This is new. It’s not something she expected to come from Eve, at the very least.

“Fine.” She gives her a look. “I am sorry for how I said what I said, too, but not sorry for what it was I said.”

Eve snorts. “Well, okay then.”

“I never say anything I don’t mean.”

Eve glances over at her, her look shifting to take her all in. “I know.”

“Eve…” she starts, and Eve is watching her, her mouth opening ever so slightly, her breath harder - Villanelle can see the way her chest rises, her throat tenses and twitches - but Villanelle doesn’t finish. She doesn’t want to say it. 

“What?”

Her phone vibrates in the duster pocket, the burner. A message from Mother:  _ Be ready in a few minutes, Oksana.  _ She looks up at Eve again. “Do you have your passport? Actually, you probably don’t need it. I doubt this is a sanctioned flight.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, it appears we are at that stage in the relationship where you get to meet my Mother."

 

 

 

 

 

Villanelle, of course, was dead on when she spoke to Mother, and Eve takes not just convincing but a heated debate to get her into the black Jaguar that eventually appears in front of the building. The driver is very accomodating, all things considered, and smiles as he rolls the tinted window back up to let them sort this out.

“There is a plane waiting for us. We can’t just stand here until the sun comes up. Which,” she says, scanning the sky and its telltale orange glow. “Is very soon.”

“We can stand here as long as we need to until they prove we’re not about to be executed.”

Villanelle’s sure her sigh of exasperation is only a little cruel. “Would I put you in danger? Really, Eve. Think about that. Would I ever put you in a position where I thought there might be a chance you’d get hurt?”

“That assumption relies on the fact you think Mother is a safe bet.”

“She is.”

“I don’t have to trust her.”

“Do you trust  _ me _ ?” But even as Villanelle waits, Eve does not answer. She stares at the tinted window before Villanelle finally yanks the door open, waving her hand around to show the car is not full of armed men or suspicious individuals. “See? Not a trap.”

“That’s not convincing.”

“This is why I asked if you trusted me.” Villanelle reaches around her for Eve’s overnight bag, throwing it into the backseat of the car before Eve can snatch it back. She gestures to the open door of the Jag, beckoning for her to get in. “Because if you trust me, then you should by extension also trust her because you’re trusting in  _ my _ trust.”

“Again, with your tongue twisters.”

She makes an exaggerated face. “English is not my first language, Eve.”

“But you’re  _ very _ good at it.”

A proud smirk. “Thank you.”

Eve’s hands are on her hips, apparently searching for more reasons to not just get in the car. “This feels like a stupid move. We are making ourselves completely vulnerable.”

“You love making yourself vulnerable.”

A snort. “Uh, I don’t, actually.”

“On the contrary, you vocally get off on it. Like it makes you loud and soaking wet, vulnerability.”

Eve gives her a look, jaw set, and then slides into the backseat. Villanelle grins, getting in next to her. Eve glares at her. “Don’t smile at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re right.”

“Why do you  _ want _ to be right, Eve? If you’re right, we both die in a gruesome way.”

Eve licks her lips. “Is your Mother the type of person who could make death unpleasant?”

“Oh, she’s a surgeon. It would be unbearable. I mean, the worst kind of experience imaginable. I’d beg to get shot in the face first.”

Eve stares at her in silence for a while, her tongue running over the inside of her mouth, and then sits back in her seat. Villanelle can feel her trembling against her arm, and yet she knows just what kind of tremble it is: Eve is excited, Eve is thrilled. Eve’s cunt is probably pulsing over there just at the thought of what’s to come, and this is what allows Villanelle to relax enough to nap on the ride to the airport.

 

 

 

 

  
  
It isn’t the first time Villanelle has been on a private plane paid for by the Twelve, and some tiny voice in her head says an imitation of a prayer that it will be the last. What would it mean for it to be their last, and not because she was dead in a lake somewhere? What would it mean to be free? She shouldn’t let herself think on it anymore. That’s a doomed, foolish kind of thought. Nearly as doomed and foolish as thinking she might spend that freedom with the woman next to her.

Eve sits on the edge of her seat, eyes on the single assistant who appears from the cockpit to show them the exits and how the instant espresso machine works before disappearing again. She leans in towards Villanelle.

“That box behind us says parachutes.”

“Mmhmm.” Villanelle buckles herself in, pushes the leather seat as far back as it goes, and slides the silk eye mask over her ears, gold like everything else on this plane that isn’t a tan leather. When it tries, and when it is allowed to show off, the organization is nothing if not ostentatious in presentation.

“I’m going to check to see if that’s actually true.”

“Marie up there just gave us such a nice speech on what the fasten seatbelt light means,” she says, indicating with one finger lifted and one eye closed the light blazing red above the window.

“What, you’re suddenly so obedient?”

“If you recall, Eve, I am very obedient. Sometimes I even get on my knees.” Eve stares at her as Villanelle reaches over and closes Eve’s seatbelt over her lap, smirks pointedly as it clicks between Villanelle’s hands, then drops lightly onto the place where Eve’s legs meet. “There,” Villanelle says, still smirking. “Safety first.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and not worry.”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

The plane whirs loudly as they start down the runway, Eve’s eyes not leaving Villanelle’s even as they are jerked back as the nose tilts up, the sleek little jet leaving the ground, and the two of them leaving the ground, too, and Villanelle watches the other woman as she always does, waiting for a sign of some kind, except now Eve’s expression is clear, the challenge gone, the frustration gone, just the two of them suspended above the earth with nothing underneath them, just as always. 

“I do trust you, you know.” Eve’s voice is quiet under the roar of engine. “That’s why it always threw me at first, before we really knew each other and you were just...a girl who could kill me. I felt safe with you just as much as I felt terrified of you, in spite of everything I knew, and I couldn’t figure out why.”

Villanelle says nothing for a minute. “Then why did you stab me?”

Eve does not hesitate. “Because I felt safe.”

“That’s quite a paradox.” But she understands what she means. She does.

“Everything I feel when it comes to you is a paradox.”

“I don’t know.” Villanelle slides the mask back over her eyes, settles into her chair. “I think it makes perfect sense. I’m very charming and instantly lovable. Few can resist me.”

She hears Eve’s snort, hears the buzz of her chair being adjusted and laid back, and then the weight of Eve against her side, the feeling of her head resting on Villanelle’s shoulder, the warmth of her cheek. Villanelle smiles.

 

 

 

 

  
  
An hour and forty minutes later, and the private airport outside of Zurich finds them in another car with tinted windows, this time an Alfa Romeo. Villanelle nearly rolls her eyes at it all. The drive to Lucerne is less eventful than their ride through London, as Eve is letting herself go along with everything. 

“I’ve never been to Switzerland,” she says, glancing out at the countryside that floats by, the green rises with lines of pointed houses, the ever-present jagged blue on all horizons to remind them of their proximity to the Alps. “I wanted to, though. I suggested it as a honeymoon.”

“And where did you go instead?”

“Nowhere. We didn’t go on a honeymoon.”

“Why not?”

As with any time he is brought up, the spectre of her husband seems more apt to disappear when they don’t name him. “His grandmother died the night before our wedding and he had to fly to Bialystok that weekend for the funeral.”

“You didn’t go with him?”

“No.”

“That seems pointed, Eve.”

“I…” Eve is licking her lips again. “Didn’t get along well with his family. Honestly, Babcia probably died when she did just to ruin things.”

“That’s interesting.” Villanelle studies her. “Where were you supposed to go, if his grandmother hadn’t kicked the bucket?”

She makes a face. “Tenerife.”

And this makes Villanelle laugh. “Wow.”

“I know.”

Villanelle stretches as best she can in the car. “Well, I can show you Switzerland if you’d like. I know my way around the country. We end up here quite often.”

“We being The Twelve?”

“We being people who kill other people for them. When you make your living assassinating wealthy individuals, you spend a lot of time in Switzerland.”

“I see.” Eve is looking at her now, no longer enchanted by what’s out her window. Villanelle, it appears, is more interesting. “So we’d, what? Go on some kind of holiday together?”

“If you’d like. It seems like you are owed a honeymoon, Eve.”

“I never felt like I’d missed out.”

“Well, not from a bog standard week in Tenerife, no. But the concept, the honeymoon itself. I think you’re owed at least that.”

“And you’re the one who’s responsible for remedying it, is that what you’re saying?”

Villanelle smirks, spreading her hands. “I don’t see anyone else in this car who is willing or capable.”

“Capable?” There’s a smile there, somewhere under Eve’s expression. “What are the exact qualifications required for taking someone on a honeymoon? Besides marrying the person, which neither of us are going to do.”

“Not legally, at least. Not with you still being married.”

“I’m also never getting married again, even when I’m divorced.” Eve makes a face. “I’m serious about that. I’m done with the whole fucking institution.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it anyway.” Villanelle shrugs. “One needs a legal, static, and unquestionable identity to sign a marriage certificate.” She waves her fingers. “Something I lack, more or less.”

And finally, after a minute of soaking it all in, Eve’s laughter barks through the interior of the Alfa Romeo. “Did we really just talk about that?”

“I believe those of the sapphic persuasion traditionally discuss marriage on the third fuck, if I’m remembering correctly. So we’re right on time.” She resists the temptation to wink; it’s too much, even now, even as her heart thrums like an engine. “This was about that honeymoon of yours, though. You’re owed one. I’ll take you, if we ever find the time, and if it’s something you want.”

Eve’s gazing her at now - oh, Villanelle thinks, that’s solidly a gaze - and she cocks her head slightly, runs her fingers through her hair. “I’d like that,” she says, nodding once, and then goes back to the window. Once again, Villanelle is left to smile to herself, content in yet another moment that has no promise of lasting, but has promise at least, and promise is all she’s ever needed to build a universe on.

 

 

 

 

  
  
When they arrive at the gates of the chateau, the dew is still heavy on the greenery of the immaculate gardens, the sun fresh and white with first exposure, and Villanelle is crunching noisily through the shell of a Magnum, the last one to have survived its trip from flat to jet mini freezer to the second private car of the day. Eve’s hair is slightly flattened to one side of her head where she’d fallen asleep on Villanelle’s shoulder on the flight, and she’s peering carefully around them now, her eyes on the cameras on either side of the gates, the cameras on every turret, tower, window, and angle of the white chateau, the armed men who stand behind the gate, staring at them.

“I hope she has breakfast,” Villanelle says, as one puts his hand to an earpiece. “I’m going to starve to death before we even get inside.”

“You’re eating an ice cream right now.”

“Desperate times, Eve. And empty calories.”

“So this is Mother’s house?”

“No,” she says, taking another noisy crunch of the bar. “She’s usually up in that chalet by herself. This is her country estate or something.” She rolls her eyes. “The bourgeoisie really are insufferable.”

“It’s not a home,” Eve says, her voice lowering as she thinks out loud. “It’s a fortress.”

The gates open, and the men wave them through. Villanelle hands the closest one the bare popsicle stick from her finished Magnum, smirking her thanks. He stares at her, stick held up precariously between them, his mouth slightly ajar.

The front door has opened, and there she is, in a flawless ensemble Villanelle will later learn via inquiry is entirely Gucci, her glasses oversized and square and well-matched to her headscarf, looking slightly more flamboyant than usual. But then again, this is an occasion. A homecoming. Villanelle’s whole body feels warm, and she realizes suddenly that she has never come home before.

“Oksana,” Mother says, just the same as always. Villanelle can’t help but grin as she approaches, as Mother’s hand cups her bruised cheek, tests her nose with a light digit. “Fracture, not well healed. Every time you show up at my doorstep, you’ve brought some kind of injury with you.” Her eyes drift behind Villanelle to Eve, who is standing at an awkward distance. Villanelle is half-charmed that Eve’s previous mode of instant suspicion has been tainted now by what could pass as genuine nerves. “Speaking of which...”

“Mother, this is Eve. Eve, this is Mother. The woman who gave me life.”

Mother smirks. “Did I, Oksana?”

“You did, after Eve plunged that knife into me. Eve, do you remember that?”

Eve’s eyes twitch, her tongue on her back teeth. “I do, Villanelle, thanks.”

“So this is the famous Eve.” 

“Hi,” Eve says, stepping forward and holding out her hand with hilarious formality. “I’ve heard so much about you. Thank you, uh...thank you so much for having me.”

“Of course.” Mother beckons her inside with a hand. “You’re both welcome.”

Villanelle gives her a look. “Are you sure you don’t want me drugged and unconscious before you take me inside? I didn’t realize I was allowed to cross your thresholds without drooling on myself.”

“Hilarious, Oksana.” 

Eve gives her a look at the use of her name, but Villanelle smiles her approval, lest anyone forget that only Mother can call her that, and it’s only because Villanelle has chosen to tolerate it for the time being.

 

 

 

 

  
  
Unlike the decidedly mod chalet in the Alps, Mother’s chateau is as baroque in its interior decor as it was from the outside. The dining room is a pastel yellow, ornate accents in white and gold framing the walls and ceiling, a chandelier heavy enough to kill someone dangling precariously above them while they eat, everything out of a rococo nightmare. Villanelle eyes a pair of baby angels who seem to be judging her choices from the corner.

“I didn’t realize this was your taste, Mother.” Villanelle gestures around the room with her fork. “I feel like I’m sitting in a very hideous wedding cake.”

“I did not decorate it, no.” Mother sits at the other end of the table, sipping one of her espressos. “I would agree with your reasoning.”

“But it’s your house. Fill it up with your weird shapeless pod chairs, or whatever.”

“It doesn’t belong strictly to me, I’m afraid.” Mother peers at her down the end of her glasses. “How is your breakfast?”

“Just right.” It makes a mockery of what she was fed in the chalet, for starters. Her plate is overladen with poached eggs, roasted asparagus, a hollandaise sauce she thinks she could lick off the floor if she had to, and bacon that is almost erotic in its perfection. To her right, Eve is chewing tentatively on the food, perhaps suspecting poison. Villanelle withholds a snort, though she’s enjoying watching Mother watching Eve, looking between the two of them. Some part of her is proud as a prodigal child to show the two off to each other.

“And yours, Eve?”

Eve nods as she chews, smiling awkwardly. “Delicious,” she says, post-swallow. “Thank you, again.”

“You don’t need to keep thanking me, Eve.”

“This has all been so generous of you.”

“I summoned you unannounced to another country in the middle of your time with Oksana, quite early in the morning. It’s very inconvenient of me, and you have every right to be annoyed.” Mother’s smirk grows. “If, of course, you are annoyed.”

Eve makes a show of shaking her head. “Not at all.”

“Well, Eve, if you were, you’d have every right.” Mother studies Eve, and Eve’s put down her fork, and she’s studying Mother right back, and Villanelle’s a little turned on by Eve’s sudden boldness, if she’s completely honest, which is broken by Mother’s gaze shooting across the table to Villanelle. “Oksana, you must be exhausted. I’m sure both of you are entirely sleep deprived.”

Eve’s brow twitches. Villanelle sits back, putting her feet up on the chair next to her. “I could use some shuteye. But I was under the impression that things were rather urgent on your end, Mother.”

“They are. I’m glad you’re here in person. A few people will be joining us shortly, and I’d prefer not to start without them. There is time for a nap, if either of you would like one.”

Eve glances at Villanelle, then back at Mother. “Why can’t you tell us what’s going on first?”

“She’s forward,” Mother says, to Villanelle, though her smirk is unreadable, even if Villanelle half-hopes it’s one of approval. “Forward, but asking the right questions. Yes, Eve, I also would not want to be escorted to a room where I could be locked in and left ill-protected when I have not been told the purpose of my visit.”

“Eve isn’t to be underestimated,” Villanelle says, scraping sauce off her plate. 

“I can see that.” Mother’s eyes are on Eve, the look of appraisal Villanelle remembers from her early days on the mountain. “As you both know, a former agent of the Korps Commandotroepen was coerced into assaulting Eve and acquiring information from her, with an unknown end result. It’s unlikely he aimed to kill her, and more likely that there would have been a ransom scenario once the extraction was complete. And, as you also know, the same organization that hired him made contact with you, and brought you to a location where they intended on, once more, removing Eve and using her for some purpose.”

Villanelle wiggles her fingers, chewing loudly. “Nefarious.”

“Indeed, Oksana. I’ve been investigating, as promised, and the results of my investigation have led me to a clear result. That result is troubling, and the reason why I wanted you both here in person, where I could speak to you without the possibility of interference, and where I could guarantee your safety.”

Eve clears her throat. “So we’re in danger.”

Mother cocks her head at Eve, that knowing smirk, and looks at her over her glasses. “Was that not clear from the attempts on your life?”

Eve sits back as though struck in the face. Villanelle whistles, gazing at the ceiling. “Is this a fortified wedding cake, then?”

“Very much so. Impenetrable.” Mother gives Villanelle a look. “Don’t, Oksana.”

Villanelle shrugs, pretending to be offended. “Such assumptions, Mother. As if I’d have anything uncouth to say about penetration.”

Mother ignores her, as she always did, continuing. “This estate belongs to one of my colleagues, though it’s used by a number of us within the organization. His name is Vasily, and you’ll be meeting him soon.”

“Can I call him Uncle Vasily?”

“I don’t think he’ll like that very much, but I don’t think that will stop you.”

“You’ve got me pegged, Mother.”

“I should after the quality time we shared,” Mother says. The way she smiles at Villanelle is fondly, at least by Villanelle’s measure. “How has it healed, by the way?”

Villanelle smirks, indicating the scar beneath her shirt. “Expertly.”

“I would hope so.”

“So you know why they wanted me,” Eve interrupts, clearly impatient. “You know who ordered it, and what they were trying to find out.”

“Yes,” Mother says, her gaze shifting to Eve. “We do know all of that now.”

“And?” Eve’s eyes are wide, her hands extended. “Who? Why?”

Mother continues to stare placidly at her, unmoved. “It’s unfortunately complicated, and will require a lengthy explanation.”

“Are you not going to tell us?”

“I think it is best for my colleagues to give you the necessary context and background.”

Eve puts her hands flat on the table, a power move turned desperate. Villanelle watches her fingers flex, the tendons tensing on the back of Eve’s hand. Eve’s voice is louder now. “But you can give us the summary.”

Mother is quiet, her expression unreadable, seemingly unbothered by the display, her glasses still balanced at the end of her nose. She adjusts them, tilting them slightly as she puts down her espresso, now finished, and looks at Eve. “It came from within the organization.”

“The Twelve?” Eve’s eye is twitching again. “So all this time, it’s been your people.”

Mother’s lips are pursed. “For clarification, this particular group are not  _ my _ people, which is where the context and complications require explanations.”

“And you can’t just explain it now?”

Villanelle is looking between Eve and Mother, both immovable forces; Eve’s frustration boiling over, raging at her surface; Mother, only a hint of disturbance far beneath, a still pool with depths that should not be risked. 

“I will explain when my colleagues are here.” 

“But I don’t want to wait.”

Mother’s tone is cooler now. “Well, Eve, you are a guest. And as such, you aren’t in a position to make demands.”

There is a long silence, broken finally by Eve sniffing, a sound of dismissal rather than emotion. “So you expect us to just go to our room and nap? Like toddlers?”

“Rooms,” Mother corrects. “I’m very sorry, but due to the nature of your relationship and that you are under my roof, even by proxy, I don’t know that it’s appropriate for an unwed couple to share a bed.”

Eve blinks. “What?”

And for the first time since a rare occasion on the mountain, some afternoon in the chalet, Mother breaks into a melodic cackle. “I’m joking, I’m sorry.” She wheezes until she calms herself, Villanelle’s face pinched into an irrepressible grin, Eve looking on in confusion and horror. “I have absolutely nothing to say about your sleeping arrangements. We are all adults here.”

Villanelle can barely contain herself. “Well done, Mother.”

“Thank you, Oksana. I do have a sense of humor, even if you so rarely let me exercise it.”

Eve sighs, hunches down in her seat. Villanelle watches her, rare as it is to see Eve in defeat. She is looking at the table settings, Eve studying the plate, the silverware, and then Eve looks up at Mother, as if realizing something.

“There are no knives.”

A more revealing smirk flickers across Mother’s lips, then is just as briefly quelled. “Observant. Forward and observant.”

Villanelle shrugs. “Mother never allowed me knives.”

There’s something to Eve’s expressions. “I thought she trusted you.”

“She does.”

“So where are the knives?”

She’s finishing her last piece of asparagus now, eating it with her fingers as if to make a point. “Where  _ are _ the knives, Eve?” 

Eve’s drumming her fingers next to the plate, her tone insistent. “You don’t think this is weird.”

“There are forks.” Villanelle picks up a fork. “I could kill her with a fork if I wanted to, and she knows it.”

Mother is still smirking. “I do.”

Eve is leaning forward now. “But why take away the knives if she trusts you?”

“Oksana, please do not take offense at what I am about to say to your lover.”

Villanelle cannot help but shudder. “ _ What _ have I said about that word, Mother?”

“Eve,” Mother says, turning to Eve with the authority of a mother-in-law. “I’ve removed the knives as I am not in a position to predict your behavior yet.”

It takes a moment for the meaning to fully dawn on Eve - Villanelle can see this in her expression. “My behavior.”

“Oksana is deeply attached to you, and I am very much invested in her happiness. I think you are key to that happiness. But I cannot say if our Oksana is an expert judge of character, so I cannot speak to yours on her word alone.”

Eve says nothing. This seems to have stunned her for the time. Villanelle pushes her plate away from her, clean and done. “Well,” she says, smiling between the two women in her life. “I could use that nap now, I think.”

 

 

 

 

  
  
The bedroom appears to have been salvaged from the set of Marie Antoinette or some other rococo period piece, and Villanelle half-expects the cast of Dangerous Liaisons to flit past the overly ornate door frame, gilded in all the wrong places. Still, the four post bed with its layers of pillows in pastry hues and forms, and the long fringed curtains that hang from it are appealing enough to draw her in, and she collapses backward, pleased at the creak it makes as she sinks into what is unquestionably a fine mattress.

“Breakfast was perfect,” she yawns, stretching. Eve is still standing at the door, having just closed it behind her. She seems to be listening to hear if the armed guard who accompanied them has walked away, her ear pressed to its surface. “There’s room for both of us, you know.”

Eve finally turns, gives her a look. “I’m not sleeping.”

“But you must be exhausted.” She pats the spot next to her. “Come here. We can draw the curtains. It will be very secretive of us.”

“I feel like someone has a taser against my spinal cord.”

Villanelle props herself up on her elbows, frowning. “That sounds unpleasant.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m in an unpleasant situation.” Eve is running her hands through her hair, pacing across the parquet floors. Villanelle watches her, one eyebrow raised. “I just found out your organization is hunting me--”

“Well, that’s nothing new.”

“And I don’t think your Mother likes me.”

“Oh, she likes you. She would have left the knives out if she didn’t.”

Eve stops pacing, stares at her. “What was with that?”

“You’ve recently killed a man, or did you forget?”

“That doesn’t make me an unpredictable killer.” She pauses, swallows. “No offense.”

“Why would I be offended, Eve?” She yawns again, stretching out against the sea of luxurious pillows. They’re all pastel and silk and so tasteless but she’s far past the point of caring about aesthetic over exhaustion.

“I mean, you can take away the knives, fine, but if  _ you  _ can kill her with a fork, why couldn’t  _ I _ kill her with a fork?”

Villanelle makes a face when she realizes the implication, laughing. “You’re not upset that she assumed you could kill her with a knife. You’re upset that she assumed you  _ couldn’t  _ kill her with a fork.”

“I’m not that stupid. It’s a very basic motion, right? Jab into the jugular, simple enough. Does she think I’m a moron?”

“Wow. Well, when we go back downstairs, let’s make sure Mother is brought up to date on your abilities with a fork. In the meantime, let’s rest.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, it’s nice and easy. You lay down and close your eyes, and maybe you let me spoon you.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Or fork you. Dangerous.”

“How are you so calm?” Eve’s pacing again, her eyes wilder. “Seriously, how do you keep all of this inside you? I don’t know what's going on, do you? I don’t know how to protect myself if something goes wrong, I don’t know where we technically are, I don’t know who these new people showing up are. I should have paid more attention on the drive but I let my guard down and now...I don’t know, I feel like I should be doing something about it.”

“Eve, it’s okay. Everything is okay, and nothing is going to happen to you. It’s safe here.” She feels her brow invert in sympathy in spite of herself. Is it a pantomime of sympathy? But she wants her to feel good, she wants to help. Isn’t that real?

“Is it? Because it feels insane, but you’re taking it all in stride.”

She shrugs. “Psychopath.”

“No, that’s not it. You know that’s not it.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Eve turns to her, frowning. “You can’t use that excuse anymore.”

“Why? It’s what I am.”

“Can a psychopath love?”

The question is a loaded one, and it is clear Eve knew it when she asked it, because she’s still now, her eyes narrowed. Like she’s waiting, and has been waiting for a long time. And, of course, she asked this last night, didn’t she? Villanelle stares at her. Eve’s tongue is at the corner of her mouth, just the tip. Villanelle wants to taste it. Maybe even swallow it.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I am capable and incapable of, Eve.”

“How can that be?”

“I just don’t know. I’ve never looked it up.”

“You’ve never even googled the symptoms?”

“No, why would I do that? If I am a psychopath, if they say I am this and these are my traits, then why would I need to recognize it in myself? I wouldn’t change in the middle of an action if I realized I was doing something that is part of the psychopathic profile. I would not stop myself. I would not try to fix it. There is nothing to fix.”

“But you do love.”

“I never said that.”

“But you do.”

“Maybe I do.”

“You love Mother.” Eve sniffs again, that same sniff from the table. “I can see that you do.”

“You are pathologically jealous of the other women in my life, have you noticed? You should talk to someone about that. I think I still have Lore’s number.”

“You trust Mother.”

“I also trust you.”

“But I see how you are with her, with Mother. You’re different. Calmer. Like you’re passing the responsibility onto her. Like you’re in a different role.”

“What are you like with  _ your _ parents?”

Eve blinks. “Is that really what she is to you?”

“I call her Mother. I don’t know what else she would be. Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know what they’re supposed to be like. Mothers. Daughters. Either of them.”

Eve is quiet for a moment, and finally, with what seems like a great effort, she sits down on the end of the bed. “What was your real mother like?”

“Dead.”

“Before she was dead, what was she like?”

“Like she was about to be dead.” Villanelle takes her shoes off, slides them onto the floor next to the bed. “What is yours like?”

“Like most mothers, I think.”

Villanelle makes a face. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Eve shrugs. “I have a good relationship with her.”

Villanelle rolls onto her back again, eyeing Eve carefully. “I can tell when you aren’t telling the truth, Eve.”

Eve sighs. “Fine. We were closer when I was younger. She doesn’t like that I am so far away, and she hates when I’m unhappy. It hurts her, I think.”

“Do you tell her when you’re unhappy?”

“Never.”

“How do you avoid that?”

“I lie to her.”

This surprises Villanelle, and yet doesn’t surprise her at all. “Really.”

“I lie to her constantly. I don’t even think about it anymore. As soon as I answer the phone, it’s like I can’t help myself. I’m already making something up, some stupid thing Niko and I did together, some good news that isn’t real, something about my job and how well it’s going and some potential promotion.” Eve laughs to herself, a sad, harsh sound. “She thinks I have all these friends, and Niko and I are so happy. She thinks I’m on a holiday with him this week. She thinks we’re in Edinburgh at a language festival. Do you know how far I went? I looked it up. I memorized the schedule and I researched the speakers so I could send her text messages about the panels. I don’t even think about why I do it anymore. I just do. I’ve constructed an entire life for her that doesn’t exist.”

Villanelle studies her. Eve’s fingers are playing with the front of her turtleneck, pulling and pulling on a single pinch of fabric, working it over. “Is that the life you want? The one you’ve made up?”

“No.” Eve shakes her head. “Not at all. But I want her to be comfortable, and what I want would not be a comfort to her.”

“You are protecting her from yourself.”

Eve swallows, saying nothing for a moment. “That may be a way to think of it, yes.”

“It’s harder with family. It’s harder when you love people.” She runs her hands over the pillow behind her head, feels the cool silk on her fingertips. “Life is easier when you are the only person you have to please. When you don’t have to make decisions based on whether or not someone is going to worry about you.”

“I worry about you.”

Villanelle looks up. “Do you?”

“I mean, I think you can take care of yourself, but I still don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Eve sputters momentarily. “I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“I’m fine with pain.”

“But you shouldn’t have to be. I don’t want you to experience it.”

“Why?”

Again, Eve hesitates as if choosing her words, red flushing across the height of her cheekbones. “No one should suffer.”

“So you don’t want anything to happen to me because in general, humans should not have bad things befall them.”

“Well, that is true, sort of, but I’m not talking about anyone else.”

“So I shouldn’t suffer because of the principle of it.”

Eve inhales, holds it. Exhales quickly. Villanelle is focused on the rise and fall of her chest, how it accentuates the skin at her collarbone. “No, you shouldn’t suffer because I don’t want you to suffer.”

“Why?”

“Are you four?” Eve laughs uncomfortably, then grins, shaking her head. “Because I care about you. Obviously I care about you.”

“What do you imagine could happen to me?”

“A lot, given your line of work.”

“A stabbing, maybe?”

Eve snatches a pillow from next to Villanelle, bats her playfully, gently with it. Villanelle catches it, her fingers closing over Eve’s wrists. Eve smirks. “It’s too late for that, I guess.”

“You know, I’ve never brought a girl home before.”

Eve snorts. “First of all, I’m too old to be a girl.”

“Semantics.” She taps her on the nose. It’s probably a stupid gesture, but Eve doesn’t pull away when she does it. “You’ve met Mother now. That’s the closest I’ll get to a family meal, what we had this morning.”

“So this really is your version of me meeting the parents.”

“Unless you’d like to travel to Russia to a poorly marked grave, then yes. But you’d want a better jacket.” She pantomimes shivering. “It’s very, very cold.” Something comes to mind. “My mother knew one sentence in English. Do you know what it is?” She sees her mother’s face as it was at the window above the sink, the pinched mouth in the reflection of the glass, how she would wince as she scrubbed until her hands were red and raw. “‘Forget about it.’ Like what a gangster would say. I think she must have seen it in a movie. But she never knew how to insert it into a conversation. Sometimes she would just look at me and say it. I don’t know if she was trying to be funny or not. But now I think it is funny, because I choose not to remember her, so I have obeyed after all these years. I did forget about it.”

“Is that why you don’t speak Russian? Because you spoke it with her.”

“No.” And that is that. “Do you speak Korean with your family?”

“Yes, but they speak English. We just always used Korean at home.”

“I’ve always liked that about languages. When we speak more than one, when we change them depending on the person, they come to mean something about the relationship. Do you know what I’ve learned? I have different relationships with people in different languages. I would have a different relationship with you if it was in Russian.”

Eve hasn’t blinked in a long time. “What would it be like?”

She smiles at her. “Doomed.”

“How’s that?”

But she couldn’t tell her the serious reason, the real reason, so it becomes nothing more than a wink. “You don’t speak Russian. So I’d just be a girl pointing a gun at your head, and you’d never know how I really felt.”

Eve snorts again, though there’s something in her expression still. “Maybe I could tell from your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“You have very expressive eyes.”

“Oh.”

And she could think for a very long time on the thought of Eve, noticing her expressive eyes, reading them, wondering about them.

Villanelle lays down, and after a while, Eve lays down behind her. They say nothing, and Villanelle lets herself close her eyes. 

She feels Eve’s finger on her shoulder blade, tracing lines and shapes. It’s almost like she’s writing something there, and for a brief moment, Villanelle tries to imagine what Eve would ever want to spell into her skin. Her touch, so light, down her spine, circling back up to the nape of her neck. And then it’s gone, and Villanelle holds her breath until she feels Eve pull closer, tuck her head against Villanelle’s back, nose to neck, and sighs.

 

 

 

 

  
  
She thinks it’s been an hour when the knock comes at the door. Villanelle lifts one eyelid, groggy, and props herself up on an elbow as the same guard from earlier lets himself in.

“What if we were indecent?” she asks, yawning, and he ignores her, gesturing to the hallway.

“They would like you downstairs in the parlor.”

She makes a face. “The parlor. Wow.”

Behind her, Eve stirs, sniffing and stretching as she wakes. “What’s going on?”

“Eve, the gentleman says we are required in the parlor.”

A snort. “Yeah, right.”

“I know. We’re not dressed for a  _ parlor _ .”

The guard appears unamused by their shared joke. 

“Okay, okay.” She stands up, sliding her shoes back on. “We’ll be right there. Don’t get your panties in such a twist.”

 

 

 

 

  
  
Well, it’s certainly what she pictured when he said ‘parlor.’

Mother is on a couch, and she gestures to the seat in the same relation to where Villanelle would have sat in the chalet. The meaning is not lost on her. Eve sits beside her, still trying to adjust her hair, blushing slightly as Mother watches them both.

“I hope the nap was helpful. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you sleep for longer.”

A man has appeared at the door to the parlor, bald and narrow-faced, his gaze intense as he takes in the occupants of the room. He is dressed like a businessman, tight-suited and wide-tied in a specifically oligarchic way, but Villanelle can see the tattoo peaking out at his wrist. Bratva, she thinks, or former Bratva. “Mariarta,” he says, and it takes Villanelle a moment to realize that this must be Mother’s real name. Mother looks over at him, nodding her acknowledgement.

“Right on time, Vasily.”

Villanelle grins widely. “ _ Uncle  _ Vasily.”

The man frowns, his lip curling slightly. He steps back as if maintaining his distance. “I take it this is Oksana, the one called Villanelle.”

“What gave me away?”

He gives her a look and rattles off in Russian: “Your reputation for this behavior is known.”

She leans even harder into her accented English. “I also have a reputation for my effectiveness, or so I am told in Retirement.”

“Is that where they’ve hidden you these days?” He glances at Mother. “Smart. The last place they’ll bother with, if they bother at all.”

Mother nods. “I thought as much.”

“You are lucky, Oksana called Villanelle.” Vasily takes a seat next to Mother, staring down at her. “Mariarta is not so careless as others.” He looks at Eve now. “Who is this?”

“Eve Polastri,” Mother says. 

He seems unsurprised by her presence, grunting and nodding. “Eve Polastri.”

Eve’s careful in her expression, and Villanelle sees that part of Eve that knows how to put up a mask, the subtleties in her face something only Villanelle would pick up on, the almost unnoticeable pinch at the corner of her mouth, the new crease beside her eye. “Yes. And who are you?”

“Uncle Vasily, apparently.” He glares at Villanelle, then clears his throat.

“And you do what?”

He seems thrown by Eve’s question, but does not hesitate. “I work for the same organization as the rest.”

“The Twelve.”

Vasily fixes her with a look, unblinking. “Yes, Eve Polastri. The Twelve. You are familiar?”

“You didn’t really answer my question.”

Vasily looks at Mother, then back at Eve. “You are familiar with Mariarta’s role?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know mine.”

“So you’re a surgeon, too.”

This prompts a laugh from Vasily, a harsh booming sound that fills the whole room, baby angels and all. “I would rather shoot myself than play doctor. No, I am Nine.”

Mother’s eyes flash at him. Villanelle catches up immediately. Someone else might be nervous now, but the curiosity overtakes her, smirking with confidence. “Nine of Twelve?”

Vasily grunts as he nods. “Last I checked.”

Villanelle whistles, though something in her has perked up, alert, the instinct to be ready to run if necessary. “I’ve never met one of the Twelve.”

He snorts. “So you think.”

“I  _ do _ think. Very well, thank you.” She studies him, how there is too much amusement in his expression. “What do you know that I don’t?” She sees his lifted eyebrows, that ugly smile, realizing his implication. “Who?”

And at this, he indicates Mother with a nod, whose face is impassive, pale behind her glasses. Villanelle’s stomach turns, perhaps in shock, and she swallows so she doesn’t choke on her own saliva as she stands up, moves with purpose towards the door, grabbing Eve by the arm as she passes. 

“Oksana.” Mother’s voice is calm even as Villanelle is pulling Eve behind her, trying the closest door knob. It does not budge. “Oksana, please sit down.”

“No,” she says, forcing herself against the door with her shoulder, and Eve’s hand is on her other shoulder, squeezing tightly, Eve’s head leaning in towards her as she pulls her closer.

“잠깐만,” she whispers, and Villanelle looks at her, some part of her pleading, and swallows down her wave of emotion as she turns slowly, Eve’s hand in hers, and faces Mother. She doesn’t look like she did in her room, Villanelle searching for her murder weapon. Now she seems sadder, even upset.

“Oksana.”

“Well, I can’t go anywhere, can I? You’ve locked us in.”

Mother points towards the door on the other side of the room. “That one isn’t locked. You are welcome to leave that way if that is what you want.”

She is aware that she is trembling all over, almost blinded by the feeling inside of her that she wishes was fury but is something else, something that hurts. “I want answers.”

“I can give you those.”

“You lied.”

“I withheld, and only this one thing, Oksana.”

Her left hand forms into a fist. “I should have killed you that day. I should have strangled you with that fucking belt.”

“This is not how I would have liked for you to find out.”

“I should have found out when you woke me up.”

“I know you will not be affected by this, and you are justified in not caring, but I did it to protect you. Had you known my role, it would have made you a very clear target, and you were already vulnerable. And, above all, it is against our rules to reveal our positions.”

“Uncle Vasily did.”

“Uncle Vasily is a bastard and a fool, I’m afraid.”

Uncle Vasily chuckles to herself.

“Are you even a doctor?”

“I do everything you’ve seen me do. I repair injured assassins. I was a surgeon by trade, and remain a surgeon in the organization. But the Twelve are spread throughout at all levels and responsibilities.”

“It’s a strategy to maintain balanced power,” Vasily interrupts. “I’m in Acquisitions, for example. We are promoted from all roles.”

God, every part of her wants to rip something, anything open. Tear it asunder. Crack bones, spill marrow, spread blood like a disease. But she also wants to drop to her knees and cry until it hurts. Because the pain she feels doesn’t want to be shared. It wants to simmer and fester inside her. It feels like betrayal is supposed to feel, she thinks, when people describe it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

“I want to leave,” she says, quieter than she intended. Eve’s hand is still tight on her wrist, squeezing there. 

“We should hear what she has to say,” Eve whispers. “But whatever you do, I’m right behind you.”

“Eve, Vasily.” Mother gets to her feet. “May I speak with Oksana alone?”

Eve steps between Villanelle and the rest of them, the first time she’s ever done anything of the sort. “No.”

“I understand why you’re being protective. I’m pleased, actually. She deserves someone to protect her like this. But I mean her no harm.”

“According to your word, a word that’s no good anymore.”

“I’d like to talk with Oksana, to answer her questions. She has earned this conversation.”

“And you’ve earned the right to fuck right off.” Eve stands firm. “No.”

Mother looks around Eve’s shoulder, meeting Villanelle’s eye. “Oksana?”

And it hurts, it hurts, this feeling. It hurts worse than she thought a feeling could, one that lives in her head. Mother reaches out her hand, and Villanelle lets go of Eve. “I’ll go,” she says, only aware of the throbbing in her chest, grateful for Eve’s look of surprise, for how reluctantly she releases her. 

 

 

 

 

  
  
Mother takes her by the hand and leads her out of the room, out of the back of the massive house, silent until they have reached the gardens. A symmetrical garden of baroque shrubs in baroque shapes, leading palatially down to a rounded pool; it is all as she would have predicated, seeing the chateau from the front. Villanelle sees guards on its periphery, watching them through sunglasses. Mother steps a few feet away from her, indicates a bench, but she shakes her head, keeping her distance.

“What part of it was true?”

“Everything but my role.”

“That’s why you can do me so many favors.”

“I have favors to call whether or not I am Five. Saving lives, as you earlier guessed, will earn me a good number of them.”

“Five." Villanelle almost laughs to herself. “Mother, Mariarta, Five. You have a lot of names.”

“So do you.”

“Only two of them matter.”

“The one you call me means the most to me, Oksana. I was not Mother until you.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me feel like this.”

“Like what, Oksana?”

“Any of it! Don’t make me  _ feel. _ ”

Mother shakes her head. Her tone is still cool as ever, always Mother, but her eyes...why are her eyes different now? Why do they make Villanelle want to be held, to be comforted? This is fucking stupid, she thinks. Stupid enough to waste someone.

“You are not heartless, Oksana. You are not a machine, or a monster. And that is why I never wanted to tell you. I did not want you in harm’s way, and worse, I did not want to hurt you like this. Because I knew it would hurt.”

She takes a rattling breath. “I could kill you right now, you know.”

"I know.”

“And now I have a good reason. The one on the mountain was petty.  _ This _ , this could be justified. Most people would think it’s excusable.” Her gaze flickers to the guards again. “Your protection is too far away. They wouldn’t get to you in time to stop me. You’re completely vulnerable here.”

“I know that.”

“I told you on the phone. I told you, don't make a fool out of me. And I’m crying in Switzerland, Mother, so I’m feeling very fucking stupid right now. And that’s very fucking dangerous for you.”

Mother sighs, sits down on the bench, an un-Mother-like collapse as she unfolds herself, pulls off her Gucci scarf. “Yes, Oksana. I’m very aware.”

“I trusted you.”

The scarf crumples in Mother’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

She twitches her nostrils to keep from sniffing, tries not to blink so the tears won’t form. “Are you?”

“Of course I am. I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Then you should have been honest.”

“Honesty would have endangered you.”

Villanelle snorts. “So what? I can look out for myself.”

“That isn’t always necessary.”

“When I pick such shit people to trust, it is.”

Mother looks at her again. She removes her glasses now, sets them in her lap. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you, Oksana?”

She swallows. “No.”

“And I won’t. Nothing has really changed. I am the same as I was, doing all the same things I did. Only now, you know of my promotion, and it is a small thing, really.”

She takes one step closer. Just one. “Why did you help me?”

“Because I am fond of you, Oksana.”

Another step. “Why?”

“Because I care about you.”

And yet another. “Why?”

“Because you remind me of myself, I think, before I lost my wife. A wicked little spark of a woman.” She smirks to herself. “That version of me died with her, and I did not think I would encounter it again. But I see who I was in you, and so I care.”

“So it’s just because I remind you of who you used to be.” She wipes at her face, aware she looks like a child as her eyes get wetter, and finally sits next to Mother on that cold marble bench. “That’s selfish, Mother.”

“All love is selfish, Oksana.”

She sniffs, drops her elbows on her knees as she leans forward. Watches a single bee hovering above the roses. Time seems to pass slowly now, and she thinks she wouldn't know the difference between an hour and a day if asked. “So now what?”

“What would you like to do, Oksana?”

“What are my choices?”

Mother slides her glasses back on, readies her scarf to go over her head. “Well, you can kill me. Or just hurt me very badly, whatever your preference. Or we could go inside, where I think your Eve is waiting with baited breath, and I can explain your situation to you both.” She gives her a look. “I say this not out of my own desire to live, but out of a desire to protect you - if you do kill me, you’ll not make it out of here easily. You’d do better to walk me off the grounds before you do it so you’d be able to make a better getaway. Otherwise I think the guards would mow you down before I hit the ground.”

Villanelle stares, and Mother stares back. And then, for whatever reason, a reason she cannot name, she laughs. “Do you think normal daughters want to kill their mothers?”

“Oh,” Mother says, smiling a new smile. “I think most of them, yes. Especially the teenaged ones.”

“Then maybe we are normal.”

“Maybe, Oksana.”

“I’ll go inside with you,” she says, standing up. “Do you like Eve?”

“I do.” Mother reties her scarf, brushes off the front of her silk blouse, lovely paisley patterns flattening there. “I would have had her killed if I didn’t.”

“ _ Mother _ .”

“I’m joking.”

“Are you, though?”

Mother smirks. “If she’s good to you, you’ll never have to find out.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
